


What Lurks In The Dark

by StarlightLion



Series: Marked, Attuned, and Awakened [3]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Thief (Video Game 2014)
Genre: (bet you saw the Lurk thing coming a mile away), (if only you knew), And so much PTSD guys, Despite the... uh... Imperial lingerings, Epilepsy, F/F, GONNA BE MAGIC - SO MUCH MAGIC, Ghost run, Gonna admit, Gonna be violence - so much violence, I work without a beta, If y'all hated The Forsaken y'all gonna hate this, JUST, LET US GO, Low Chaos, OHHHH HECK YEAHHHH, Post-Dishonored, Post-Thief, Swearing and fighting and the works, We Die Like Men, Y'all know what we're here for, here we go bois, pre-Dishonored 2, shall we say, so many, this one is mostly Thief-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 70,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightLion/pseuds/StarlightLion
Summary: It's lucky that Garrett feels so at home in the dark, because sometimes, there isn't a way out.And some would do well to learn not to follow him there.(on temporary hiatus while I kill writer's block)Sequel toThey Say His Eyes Are Black As Void And Her Hands Glow Like Moonlight





	1. Prologue - Primal

**Author's Note:**

> Choo the fuck Choo my guys, we're back on the roller coaster with nary a breath. I wanna thank the Outsider for being a real motherfucker, the Primal for having _absolutely no one's back but her own,_ and the ever-illustrious [Haethel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haethel) for being utterly delightful and also letting me steal the name outright.
> 
> Just so we're all on the same page: [This Document](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1wiO3vBT8zYMpw-no0l3o8lq7bKGrW5vEm-OlNzjuNx4/edit#) will give you all you need to know about how the solar/lunar calendars function in this universe, and should also be spoiler free. (This is mostly because I cannot for the life of me figure out how to integrate all that information into clean storytelling when the characters in question already know it). All the same, some of it might end up there, so... try not to get too frustrated if it does!
> 
> Lovely (hah) start with this here short ass prologue. In which... I exercise my right to fuck shit up. Not to worry! I'm so, so excited you guys, this one is gonna be a wild, heckin' ride and oooh I have so many plans. I can't wait for you to find things out and see things happen and _meet characters lordie lordie_ \- so let us cut short our ballgowns and summon up our magic, friends! It's time to get freaky with it.
> 
>  **To Emma, I dedicate Leon Diamandis.** \- _I couldn't save you, but I can honour you._

Of all the side effects that being Attuned brought him, by far the one Garrett had expected the least was the lack of sleep.

In some ways, it counted as fortunate; Garrett had never flown through projects this quickly before, when he only slept two or three hours a day. On the other hand, while the collapse of The City’s political and - inevitably - social structures gave him much more freedom to wander during daylight, he’d never really understood just how  _ long _ twenty four hours really was.

And it didn’t make leaving the Clocktower any safer.

All the same, Garrett had adjusted to the change as the seasons progressed, and begun working on whatever new forms of magic the Primal was willing to offer him. Thus far, aside from focus, he had reliably figured out how to summon and attach the corrosive shadows to an arrow - or in one case, his blackjack - and he was unaffectionately calling the resulting weapons  _ shadowspun. _ It was harder, much harder, to make a lightspun arrow; he’d managed, twice, and both times utterly by accident.

Garrett had also gotten good at fogging shadows after him when he left them, although he could still only do it while he was focusing - and it made the whole exercise infinitely harder, trying to keep the shadow sticking to him when he couldn’t  _ see _ it. Basso (reluctantly, he was sure) helped. And there was more, bubbling away under the surface, more that he could feel coiling through the Primal as it coursed through his body, more that he hadn’t yet figured out and couldn’t control.

And other things, that he couldn’t control. Emotions-- No, not… emotions, but… something. He’d noticed it, accidentally brushing too close while he’d pickpocketed someone - sometimes it wafted off Basso in invisible coils that brushed against his skin. Garrett didn’t have the words the describe what it was, really, couldn’t have said anything beyond  _ desire. _ He could sense it, not always - a person’s… desire.  _ That _ they had it - sometimes  _ what _ it was. Not always clear, or defined; but sometimes so strong and apparent that Garrett had a hard time remembering it wasn’t his own.

Sometimes it was for a thing, sometimes for a feeling. Gold, freedom, safety, wine - someone else. Solitude. Sometimes it was a conflicting feeling; what he sensed clashed with what he wanted personally, or perhaps even what he sensed conflicted with itself. Garrett hated that one particularly, an innate understanding of desire that made his eye glow and the Primal rise under his skin like gentle fire.

A few times, he’d sensed something else instead. Lust, or rage - like a cloying thickness in the air, hot and smothering. The Primal didn’t so much burn as  _ race _ in response to those, and at this point Garrett’s only plan of action was still to just run.

Once, it had been  _ fear. _ So animal a terror that he’d frozen in his tracks, lost his breath, felt his heart stutter in his chest - and  _ seen, _ as his Primal eye had lit ablaze and the world had gone grey and muted blue, the twisted face of the fear, and known it only as death. A split second later, everything had snapped back to normal - so fast that he’d felt dizzy and sick. All that was nearby was a riot, still building in ferver.

And Garrett had wondered if someone was dead, and gone straight back home to the Clocktower instead of find out. He’d recorded the incident, as he did with everything else magical, but it was buried at the back of a notebook he’d buried at the bottom of his paperwork chest, and he had done his best not to think about it since.

So this, as he went about stripping down and yawning, was by far the most unexpected side effect - but by a longshot not the most unwelcome. It was late afternoon, now, the sunlight pale and watery in the early winter and he shivered as he tucked himself into bed. The blankets were cool, and they wouldn’t warm for some time; very likely, by the time they were actually warm enough to be considered snug, he’d be awake and ready to rouse again.

All the same, Garrett settled down, curled into a comfortable ball, and drifted.

…

When he opened his eyes, things seemed… wrong. There was a strange, echoey quality in the air. His immediate thought, blinking up through the darkness at what…  _ maybe _ looked like the wooden floorboards of his second story, was that this was a dream.

A thought he dismissed, because if he was dreaming then he wouldn’t have thought to ask himself if he was dreaming. Convoluted logic by anyone’s standards, but Garrett’s dreams were few and far between; mostly nightmares, if he was honest, and those he remembered at all were incoherent and hazy.

This… was different.

So he threw the covers off, got to his feet - frowned slightly, as the floor seemed to press back, a soft almost-spongy surface. The chill didn’t touch him; he wasn’t warm, exactly, but neither did he feel cold. It was almost like swimming in perfectly tepid water, except he was definitely walking and could--

No. He wasn’t breathing. But the brief flare of panic died down as quickly as it began, because even as he found his lungs were still, he realised that there was no pain associated with it - his heart beat very slow, but steady, and the tension of oxygen starvation was totally absent. His head felt clear, his body moved cleanly.

So, confused but not panicking, Garrett stepped out and found himself in darkness. It swirled around him, fog and ink both, and then pockets of light began to appear; thin weaves like mist that slid in and out of sight with every movement, and wider ones, lower to the ground. Bits of the Clocktower interior shone out around him, in brief flickers. His Montonessis, stretched flat and wide, coiling up into the distance like a spiral staircase; the scribbles and bloody handprint that adorned their backs glittered faintly blue.

He went closer, knelt to study a pool of light on the- the ground? The- whatever it was that he stood on, the soft, solid darkness. Slowly, it dissolved into flowers; pale blue, wide bells that didn’t bloom but rather sealed into little puckered tops, and bobbed on stems so thin they should have snapped under their own weight. A faint clicking echoed around him, a whistle so low that he couldn’t quite hear it, but was all the same aware it was there.

And finally, he  _ recognised _ the place.

He didn’t even have time to turn around before the flowers he was studying - for the first time - blossomed. They split apart violently, bursting along seams they didn’t have, and blinding light poured out of them, like a waterfall going up. A moment later - far, far less than one of Garrett’s impossibly slow heartbeats - the flowers withered and died, and the light coalesced, and  _ now _ Garrett felt cold.

Hovering before him, undulating pale white-blue in exposed body, light billowing from hair-ribbons-fabric-vapour that hung around her and did nothing to conceal her form, the Primal unfolded, and leant close with a soft  _ coo. _

The sheer magic that radiated from her lapped against Garrett’s skin, hot and liquid and electric. As it had before, it ignited somewhere deep in Garrett’s gut, and he fought down the storm of emotions and sensations that it triggered - too many to name, and all utterly conflicting. One or two rose above the others. Overwhelmingly, the sudden realisation that he’d been roused from sleep and he was not clad in his leathers, but rather the same  _ modesty _ the Primal was.

He shifted, acutely uncomfortable, and even more so when the Primal swept glowing white eyes over him from head to toe. She laughed, and the sound vibrated in the darkness - flowers bloomed and died around them in equal measure, even as silky emerald green simmered under her skin in spirals, and the clicking grew ardent.

**“Hello, Garrett,”** she intoned, and Garrett took a step back as her voice wound into every nerve in his body, warm and slick.  **“Having fun with my magic?”**

Laughed, as if the answer was a given. Garrett glared as yet was still possible, swallowing the tangle of heat and shame boiling in his stomach. “Not really. Did you want it back?”

And the Primal laughed again, a low pealing noise that Garrett could  _ feel. _ She leaned in close, caressed his face - it felt like touching a hot brand, but painless, and Garrett shuddered despite himself, feeling it radiate out from his cheekbone into  _ everywhere _ else, liquid flame.  **“Oh, Garrett. Don’t you know? You’ll die if you give it up.”**

As if it was amusing, pink and orange swirling through her body. Almost as if he were a child being admonished for wanting one too many sticky cakes. His hands clenched at his sides, trembling.

**“Come now, beloved, don’t be like that.”** She drifted away slightly, pirouetting and twisting around until she was almost behind Garrett. He turned, slowly, trying to keep her in his sights - but also trying desperately not to look at her, or think about how exposed he was.  **“It’s alright, my darling, I’m not here to play. Not today, anyway.”** Spoken even lower than normal, a roiling curl in her voice that made Garrett go rigid, nails digging into his palms. If he could breathe, he wondered how fast and rough it might be - and he wondered precisely so he wouldn’t wonder anything else, and even then his thoughts turned on the Primal’s magic singing around him; wondered what else might cause him to breathe like that.

Jaw clenched, he turned away. If she would harm him, seeing it coming would do him no good - he couldn’t fight a god. Better not to look at her, and the enticing light. “Great - that’s great. Can I go back to sleep now? I don’t get enough of it.”

The Primal laughed again.  **“You’re far prettier when you’re surly, love,”** she giggled, and Garrett felt like he was melting.  **“Mmm… Another day, then. For now, I’m going to give you a warning.”** And she came floating around his other side, rotated so she lounged in the… whatever passed for air in this place, her legs daintily crossed, head propped on her elbow as if she lay on a comfortable couch. She was close - too close. The magic bubbled against Garrett’s skin,  _ under _ his skin.  **“They’re on their way, Garrett.”**

She whispered it, and he couldn’t stop the whole body shudder that it elicited, couldn’t have even begun to dissect what caused the reaction. Fear and anger scorched in his chest like flashfire, and below them rumbled a deeper heat that was equally as painful, and deliciously so.

Her lips, when they brushed against his ear, left marks that made Garrett think he may simply unwind where he stood. Then, with an utterly delighted laugh, the Primal spun midair and pranced back away from him, pinks and reds and blues of every shade dancing on her skin. The smile she gave him sank deeper than her face, rows and rows of fangs carved to points so fine as to be elegant.  **“Enjoy your week, my dear.”**

And she dissolved the way she’d appeared, splitting into beams and whorls of light, a corkscrewed helix that shot down into flowers that broke and erupted, and a second later there was nothing but a small clutch of sealed blooms and the echo of whistled clicks.

In the next moment, Garrett woke.

He woke into heaving, shuddering gasps, icy air painful in his lungs, and the agony of a heart thundering too fast. Sweat-drenched and sticky, and Garrett threw off the blankets even as the winter breeze sunk razor claws into his skin, because there was heat of a dozen kinds effervescent in every nerve and muscle and only in the steam of his breath could it vent from him.

Slowly, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his palms against them, Garrett began to calm down. Didn’t try to force it, because he knew better - let it go in its own time, let the cold sink into his bones while the rest scorched off. Did his absolute best to ignore the warm tension of his stomach and groin.

And eventually, counting his own heartbeats, Garrett felt vaguely in control of himself again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh oh, also - [My Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/musingrandomlyallday) Not to worry about the dumpster fire my main is, this is one that I use exclusively for musings and fan things and it's been dead a bit so I'm reviving it for fic stuff!  
> (if anyone ever feels the need for prompts, that's where I'll see them)
> 
> and-yep-I-headcanon-Garrett-sleeps-in-the-nudders-and-you're-just-going-to-have-to-live-with-it
> 
> Thank you all, and once again - fuckle the buck up for this one.


	2. What Becomes Of Us Who Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which chaos and order, in equal measure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! I made fluff! Granted, it's City-grade fluff, but still! Fluff!

It wasn’t that Basso didn’t trust Drathen to vet their patrons - it was that the riots were so abundant and omnipresent in the streets these days that Basso had found they often needed both of them to do it effectively. What remnants were left of the Watch didn’t venture out of Auldale anymore, too consumed trying to keep what little order they could in their own fucking backyard, so while their presence wasn’t a problem, making sure the Crippled Burrick remained at least _somewhat_ a safe space was getting difficult.

Graves helped with that endeavour - and Basso rued the day that he’d become grateful for the mongrel - but those who came merely in search of somewhere quiet to stay for a few hours were always grateful when those who came to cause trouble were chased out by the dog’s teeth. And while Basso was keenly aware that he was supposed to be running a business, and The City’s mercy was long at an end to those who failed in the endeavour, it was getting harder to turn away those who couldn’t buy food or liquor.

Basso didn’t like to think of himself as a particularly altruistic person, but The City was falling apart and the streets were more often than not a bloodbath. All the same, as the sun set Basso excused himself and left Drathen to running the pub - it was, much as Basso would never admit it, his in all but name anyway.

Instead, Basso made his way back down to the cellar, to try and sort out their finances. Not there was much of those lying around. Nearly two seasons had gone by, and the whole time saw the Burrick bleeding gold from every orifice. Basso rubbed his temples, listening to the shouting going on beyond the Burrick’s gates. It was quieting, somewhat, as night fell; not nearly enough for Basso’s tastes. Drathen had stopped venturing home every day at the start of autumn, instead taking up residence in the Burrick attic - safer, than going back and forth every day. It had only gotten worse since then.

Riots were bad enough when warranted. This… Basso sighed to himself, and unlocked the cellar door. Locked it again behind him.

“Evening, Basso,” came the voice. Familiar, but even so Basso leapt half out of his skin, heart skipping several too many beats as he jolted, and hurled the key on reflex.

“!-Red- Jenny’s _bleeding heart,_ Garrett!” Hissed out between teeth clenched together, the shock and accompanying fear that turned instantly to recognition and relief like his muscles turning to liquid.

Half in shadows, leaning against the wall by Basso’s safe, Garrett snatched the key out of the air, snorted softly. Probably got a kick out of scaring Basso half to death, the bastard. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Basso muttered, hand on his chest in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain of a racing heart, and he padded across to drop down onto the couch. There was, Basso would freely admit, absolutely no grace to the action. Eyed the thief as he lazily vaulted the side of the other couch, set the key on the table, sat down; almost flaunting his effortless agility in response. “Why’re you here so early?” It was barely dark out - Basso would have erred more on the side of _still light._

“I never knew how boring the day was when you don’t sleep through it.” Muttered quite casually, even while Garrett studied a glove and then leaned back - and as pleasing as it was for the thief to willingly settle down in candlelight in Basso’s presence, it still set to ringing a quiet little alarm bell in his head.

But he withheld the question. “Hah.” Sarcastic. The days in The City were, at present, anything but boring. Basso would have preferred boring.

Garrett hummed. “How old are you, Basso?” he asked curiously, and Basso blinked at him. Studied him closer, even as the response rose automatically to his lips; and couldn’t find anything amiss.

“Ey, don’t you know it’s rude ta ask a lady her age?”

And he _laughed_ at that, a low quiet sound that set off another alarm bell - and all the same, Basso relaxed and flashed him a grin. It was still unusual, how at ease Garrett seemed around him these days, even more so than the comfortable respect they’d shared before-- _before._ But Basso settled in turn, attributed it to all the extra bullshit they’d been through, and thanked his lucky stars.

With a low warble, Gwendolyn took off from her perch and fluttered across to them, did a little loop in the air like she couldn’t decide who to land on, and then settled on Garrett’s forearm when he lifted it slightly, almost idly. The rook chirruped quietly as Garrett scratched under her neck. “How old are _you_ then?” Basso ventured it knowing full well Garrett disliked any and all prying questions - but fair was fair, after all. And it was an innocuous enough a question. Just perhaps, Basso wanted to see how far the new easy trust went.

Not necessarily a clever idea, or even a _good_ one, nor a particularly healthy impulse, but still. Basso wanted to know.

“Come now, Basso, you know I don’t know that.” Returned with nary a pause, glancing up from Gwen, who rubbed her beak against his fingers in protest when the scritches stopped.

He resumed, to a pleased little warble, and Basso couldn’t help the warm smile. “Yeah, well… how old do you _think_ you are, then?” he amended, fully aware that street kids - no matter where they came from - rarely knew their own birthdays. Gods knew that Basso had chosen his own, years and years ago.

Garrett hummed quietly, considering it. A gleam in his eyes while he studied Basso back, but there was no suspicion there; just a curiosity, laid over with the faintest wariness. As he lowered his arm, Gwen chirped and hopped instead onto his leg, began to preen. “... Thirty four in a week,” he finally answered; and the wariness was still there, but he said it with a little half-smile, quirked at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh?!” Basso hid the surprise that he’d actually gotten an answer behind a wicked grin. Garrett was… younger than he’d expected, and _that_ was an odd twisting sensation he hadn’t been prepared for. “Barely fledged little magpie, then?”

“Mmhm, funny old lady, you are.” Sniped back without hesitation, scathing but with a smirk.

Even wary of pushing too far, Basso looked down to Gwen and spoke directly to her. “And he’s giving me his birthday, Gwen.” Which _was_ information that Basso had never been given or attempted to find out. He leaned forward ever so slightly, careful not to get anywhere near Garrett’s space, but focusing on Gwen. “It must be serious,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Alright,” Garrett broke in, shooing Gwendolyn off. She cawed a soft reproach and fluttered away to settle on Basso’s shoulder instead, gently started nibbling on his hair. “So go on. How old?”

And, well… fair was fair. Basso offered an amused little grunt. “Fifty,” he admitted. “‘bout half a season back.” Watched closely, as Garrett smirked at him.

“Hah.” Huffed, as if in victory. “You _are_ old.”

“Watch it,” Basso snapped back good-naturedly, shaking his head. Part of him rejected the teasing out of turn, because despite himself he _was_ getting old and he felt it in the winter cold in his bones, and the deep dread of trying to adjust as The City crumbled and - inevitably - was conquered. That part he buried, choosing to think about the fact Garrett actually trusted him enough to relax and rib him about it in the first place. Even so… questions usually didn’t come out of nowhere. “So, why the life story, anyway?”

Garrett shrugged. “I’ve just been wondering how you’ve gone fifty years of _daylight_ without killing yourself.”

A moment went by in tense silence, and Garrett glanced up when Basso didn’t immediately respond, suddenly seeming uncertain. Basso pushed away the automatic thought - _It was a close thing_ \- and instead huffed out a short “Har de har,” that fooled absolutely nobody, but that he at least hoped conveyed he wasn’t upset. The second of fear that Garrett was using it as a roundabout way to admit something melted away again. “The sun’s quite nice if you try it, you know.” As calm as Basso could make it, and he relaxed as Garrett gave back another soft snort.

“Liar.”

Basso shook his head. “Mmhm.” There’d be no convincing the man now. All the same… Reaching up to rub Gwen’s beak, he considered Garrett again. No way he’d come here with so much light left just to ask a mundane question like that. “So what did you really want?”

He almost regretted asking, as Garrett shifted in his seat, immediately turning uncomfortable. Glanced away, tucked his feet up under him. Basso was torn between how much harder it was for Garrett to move away quickly in a position like that (and damn but the trust made his chest cave), and what in the hells must have happened that Garrett had come here so early.

A nervous lick of the lips later, still not looking up to meet Basso’s gaze. “... The Primal paid me a visit.”

Basso almost choked, even as he registered the odd tremor in Garrett’s voice when he spoke, and then his hands clenched against the surge of rage; it was a familiar feeling, whenever the goddess was mentioned. She’d taken too much from the people Basso cared about. “She can do that?” he asked instead, reigning it in.

“Mm.” With a short glance up, the wariness in his eyes blatant now, even if there wasn’t any fear.

Trying harder to control his reaction, Basso swallowed. “How the fuck…?”

At that, Garrett frowned, something dark and haunted flashing across his face. “In my dreams, apparently.”

“Trickster’s tears, Garrett.” Muttered reflexively, all the while chewing on the unease in Garrett’s voice.

“Good thing I don’t sleep much anymore,” the thief added; deflected. In truth, it just made it _worse_ but Basso kept hold of that and didn’t respond. “Less chance of it.” And Garrett couldn’t stop the tiny raw note at that, the one that betrayed just how much he hated it. Basso wasn’t even sure he was aware of it, flashing a forced half-smirk in Basso’s direction.

He couldn’t even convince himself to return it. “What did she want?” he asked instead, even as Gwen chirped low at the sudden tension, shuffling her wings unhappily.

“... To _warn_ me.”

“She- Seriously?” Incredulous, and Garrett eyed him, shifted in his seat again so his feet were on the floor, weight leant forward from elbows to knees - not quite ready to jump up just yet, but no longer as comfortable as he’d been in Basso’s presence. It sparked guilt, just a little, because Basso _knew_ that any display of uncontrolled emotion made Garrett twitch, but he couldn’t help it. _Fuck_ the Primal, and everything she’d ever done, and _fuck her in particular_ for offering a warning now, after it all. “The Primal goddess… wanted to _warn_ ya?” When she had been the cause of pretty much all their problems to begin with.

“Mm.” Soft, but confirmation.

“About the fuck what?” Because as far as Basso was concerned, the only thing that warranted a warning from the gods was when the gods were about to fuck some shit up. And really, that could be so easily alleviated by the gods just choosing to _not._

Garrett sighed, eased back in his seat, didn’t really seem any more comfortable than a moment ago, but he eyed Basso all the same. “She said _they’re_ coming. Wouldn’t tell me who.”

And Basso didn’t have a single damn answer to that. So maybe the gods weren’t the cause of _all_ their problems, because there was a pretty big human problem hanging over all their heads - shiny, and sharp, like a guillotine - but… what the fuck.

“Also said to enjoy my week. So that’s… fun.” Garrett’s voice suggested it was anything but. Inclined to agree, Basso ran his hand back through his hair and tried to put aside the Primal issue.

 _They’re coming._ Great. “You think she meant…?” He didn’t have to say it aloud. They both knew.

“... Yeah.”

“Fuck,” Basso breathed, leaning back and letting his head tip against the sofa. Gwen warbled in concern, hopped a little closer to his face and nibbled on his lip. Swatted away, but she just hopped back again and puffed up her feathers. “... About time, though. It’s been two seasons.” And they’d been a ruin waiting to happen ever since Garrett had… gotten rid of Harlan. Basso shuddered quietly even thinking about it. He put that aside, and instead thought about other - equally as lovely - things. Like how much of The City they’d demolish to rebuild in their own style. “You reckon they’ll tear down the Burrick or the Clocktower first?” And then, whiplash fast, because if he didn’t make a joke of it then Basso was pretty sure it might kill him. “Wanna take a bet?”

Quietly, Garrett hummed. Now, he was frowning, but he seemed to have lost some of the tension, at least. “... Imagine if they try to _complete_ the Clocktower,” he countered, and Basso wondered just how hard he was trying _not_ to imagine it. “Pretty sure the Empire isn’t as scared of ghosts as The City.”

Basso found himself wanting to erase the distress in the thief’s voice. “Put the fear of Red Jenny in ‘em.” As lightly as he could manage; after all, Garrett had done pretty well convincing The City that the tower was haunted to all hells.

He was rewarded with another little snort.

But then the silence dragged on, and Basso felt the sombre feeling close in around them, and so he sighed quietly. It seemed this wasn’t the time for levity. “... So. What are ya gonna do?”

Garrett didn’t reply immediately. He glanced at Gwen, crossed his legs where he sat and considered the question. Without rush, Basso coaxed Gwendolyn onto his hand, gave her a pet, and then gently shooed her away. As expected, she fluttered into the air, did a quick circuit, and then came to land on Garrett’s knee. Almost immediately - and Basso wasn’t sure if it was automatic or if Garrett just wanted it to look that way - he reached out and rubbed the top of her head with one finger.

Eventually, he shrugged. “I’m… gonna go clear out my old safehouse. And then I’m going to stash as much shiny shit as I can.”

Unbidden, laughter bubbled out of Basso without restraint; jagged laughter, and Garrett tensed and studied him with narrowed eyes, but laughter all the same. _Gods._ Garrett had said it lightly in turn, but there was no hiding it for what it was. If the Empire tore their city down, then they’d need to keep a stash of whatever they could; and Basso doubted that _coin_ would do them much good under a new regime, with a new currency - gods knew that Empire coins weren’t legal tender in The City (not yet) - so it would have to be gold and silver and jewels.

And it was getting hard to decide if The City’s culture and customs were worth losing the stability of Empire rule.

Garrett watched him warily, unsettled by the response. He didn’t seem quite sure if Basso was upset or not. “... What about you?” Cautious. Basso shook his head, trying to reassure him and knowing it wouldn’t read.

“I’m… I’m gonna go upstairs, have a nice meal, and get _really_ fucking drunk.” Which wasn’t a solution in the slightest, but at least Basso wouldn’t have to _think_ about it for a while. Even if he’d have to put up with Drathen’s admonishments afterwards.

An odd frown made itself known on Garrett’s face. “On second thought, maybe I owe you a late birthday present.” Which in and of itself was a startling sentiment, coming from Garrett, and Basso blinked at him - utterly taken aback. Even more so by the little smirk that followed the statement. “How about I go nick you a nice cane?”

 _Because I’m old._ Again, Basso couldn’t help the bark of laughter, even if he recognised the request to leave gracefully for what it was. Hard to blame him; the drunk thing usually got to him, and Basso did his best to never be drunk when he expected to be dealing with Garrett. These days, that usually meant not at all. “Bastard,” he returned, affectionate all the same. “Go on, get. You know I don’t got any jobs for you.” And if Garrett seemed markedly happier with the switch to more professional talk, Basso didn’t mention it. “No one’s got the coin left to pay someone else to steal for them.”

“Shame,” Garrett murmured as he got to his feet, Gwen squawking in protest before swooping back to her own perch - apparently done with their bullshit. “If ever was the time to steal something impossible to steal, it’d be now. Watch is so decimated they can’t even keep the riots out of Auldale.” Stretching slightly, shaking out the tension.

Basso went cold at the reminder, sighed and rubbed his face, let his shoulders slump. So much for the booze-it-out plan. With riots so close, even at night, he couldn’t afford to be wasted on the clock. He trusted Drathen, but the man had a dozen things to do without Basso skipping out on his own responsibilities.

“Basso?” Startled, he glanced up at Garrett. It must have been obvious.

So he waved a hand vaguely. “Uh… yeah. Speakin’ of the riots.” But he didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t quite bring himself to. He didn’t figure Garrett was old enough to remember the tail end of the bloodsport that had once fuelled The City underground; even Basso hadn’t seen all that much. What he had seen had been enough to turn him off fighting for the rest of his life - he’d chosen _this_ instead.

And if it hadn’t already begun to make a comeback with the state The City was in - _bloodthirsty, dying_ \- then it was only a matter of time.

Garrett studied him, eyes narrowed, and then pulled his hood up. “Don’t worry about it, Basso. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

There was no stopping the wide eyed shock, staring at the thief even as he set the mottled blue-black scarf over his face. A different look, from the black and grey striped one, along with the deep blue cloak that had replaced his green one - but Basso had adjusted quick enough, and now it seemed strange to imagine anything different. Dazed: “Thanks, Garrett.” But with as much sincerity as he could manage, because he wanted Garrett to _understand._

“Eh,” Garrett shrugged back instead, adjusting his bow and then making for the window. Paused to give Gwen one last scritch. “What are friends for?”

Basso didn’t even get anything else out before he was gone in a flurry of shadows and swish of cloak, but Gwen warbled softly and Basso wondered if - in fact - it might be possible to die of-- Oh, but who was he trying to fucking lie to, the bird? It wasn’t shock that thumped in his chest this time. Just gratitude.

“Yeah,” he muttered into the air all the same. “Guess so.”

* * *

He’d regretted it, for the first few months. Or- They weren’t months, not here. So for… most of a season, he’d regretted it. Staying behind. Watching his friends leave had been almost more painful than the injuries - Keldin’s eyes had held such betrayal…

Leon wasn’t sure Anna would ever forgive him, and he had no idea how they’d broken it to the other Messengers upon their return. Every part of him hoped that they hadn’t left it to Corvo; he’d looked so _tired_ when he’d lingered at the doctor’s door, glancing back as if giving Leon one more chance to change his mind. And it had been a close thing - the tears, after Corvo had shut the door behind him, had burned like acid instead of salt.

While Doctor Cassare had treated him, he’d regretted it. Eventually the infection had faded from his back, and his tongue and gums had sealed well shut; eventually, his fingertips had healed so that the slightest touch didn’t burn like they were melting. Even then, some of the damage had been permanent: not all of his nails had grown back. Learning how to walk again had been-- Leon still limped a little, in the morning chill or after too much exertion, the muscles in his calf never quite fully coming right.

And then… there was the other thing. He hadn’t been ready for it, the first time - not even remotely. Late one night, pacing circles in the room Doctor Cassare had given him, trying not to limp on the pain in his calf; Leon had declined dinner, too leery of The City deteriorating around him and how scarce food was becoming, for everyone. Doctor Cassare already insisted upon more than Leon was comfortable taking - and besides all that, he wasn’t often hungry.

Then there’d been stiffness, and pain, and the next thing he’d known, he was propped in bed, his room dim, sore everywhere, and Doctor Cassare was quietly offering him a glass of water. “You had a seizure,” he’d said, softly, and Leon had felt his stomach drop.

Doctor Cassare had gone on to explain that, given what Leon had told him of his incarceration - and Leon had told him _all_ of it, though he’d carefully left Garrett out - he was concerned that Harlan might have done damage to Leon’s brain. Following the diagnosis, even as gently as it was delivered, had been too hard. But Leon got the gist of it, in the end; he’d been broken in ways that likely would never heal. In the months- _seasons_ since, Leon had come to realise that if he was careful, if he ate regularly and didn’t skip sleep, if did his best to keep calm and avoided protracted fights, then the seizures were few and far between.

But still, they happened.

The thought of bearing Corvo’s Bond again, of the Void swirling through his rune and the magic that grew in sparks from within it, made him shudder. Some part of him missed it, so deeply that it ached when he pondered it too long; and the rest of him feared what it might have done to him. How many seizures would he have suffered by use of magic before they’d realised what was wrong? And how would he have ever resisted the urge if he had free access to it? He stopped regretting his decision so much, after that.

At first, when he’d finally been well enough to leave, he’d been approached by Doctor Cassare’s live-in assistant. The woman was nurse, chemist, and secretary all in one, and even though she went only by Poppy, Leon held her in great esteem. (He’d asked, once, when he’d been drowned in a liquid painkiller she brewed herself and far from lucid, why she called herself Poppy of all things, and she’d laughed and simply said “Because, I’ll soothe all your woes.” He’d never sought elaboration).

Reticent though Leon was about where he came from, Poppy had barred his door and asked after it. When he’d refused her, pained, she’d frowned and nodded, and instead questioned if he knew how to fight. He carried it in the way he moved, she’d responded to his shocked silence, so he’d admitted that - yes, he had combat training.

“Stay,” she’d told him. “You can stay with me,” to forestall his protests that he was no longer a patient, and shouldn’t take up one of only three patient rooms in the house, “and earn your keep by keeping away the rioters and the looters.” A shadow in her eyes, as she’d spoken. “There are all too many who would lose themselves in the things we keep here.” She had not said whether she meant the drugs, or the sharps, and Leon supposed that it didn’t matter. Either offered reliable escape.

So he had.

And until the eighty fourth day of autumn, he’d been content to do so. He was still wary of his condition, but when trouble did come sniffing too close to Doctor Cassare’s home in Dayport, Leon had found himself yet still capable of sending it away. Sometimes, all it took was to heft his chakram and glare angrily, and they scattered like so much ash. Sometimes, it took more - and Leon did his best to send them off unarmed, and was generally well pleased with how his hand-to-hand skills held up. If need be, he fought with chakram and then gave the wounded to Doctor Cassare and Poppy to stitch up; while he stood in the room and glowered, a silent threat of worse should any more trouble come. Sometimes it did.

Those who threatened him or his benefactors, he killed as swiftly as possible, and without remorse. It was an ugly truth, at the end of it all, but he was efficient and he didn’t cause undue pain or terror - and sometimes, that was all the mercy he could spare.

Until, so close to winter that the chill was palpable in the air, Leon had been quietly sitting on Doctor Cassare’s doorstep, idly spinning his chakram in hand, and a group of no less than twelve had approached. He’d risen, fingers curling around the chakram grip, and watched them approach in silence. Tried not to feel the sick anxiety of an upcoming fight - tried not to wonder if this was the day he fought too hard and seized in the middle of it. Twelve was too many. More was impossible. He’d have to kill just to even the odds, and that would likely not be enough. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

They’d stopped a few metres away, milled around a bit. The nerves obvious in their faces helped calm Leon slightly. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could scare them off.

One had broken away from the crowd, pushed and encouraged by the others. He’d approached, stopped - _too close_ \- and spat on the ground. Leon had simply stared back, unthreatened. Ever so slightly, he lifted the chakram, let the filthy sunlight glint off the blades. “Fuck off,” he’d said in lieu of attacking.

The man, dark hair slicked back too closely against his scalp, had lifted his hands. “Hey, easy, mate. Just wanna ask you a few questions.” Leon’s eyes had narrowed, but he’d said nothing. “... Yeah- so look, you’re the guy who keeps everyone from fucking this place up, right?”

“Get to the point.” Palms sweating, fingers too tight on the chakram. Leon had tried desperately to hold his breathing low and even, and keep his heartrate down.

“Yeah, okay, so, you’re a pretty good fighter. And we’ve got this gig - easy for you, right? Have a couple fights, kick a little ass. Winner takes home a cut of the profits. Good times all around.” And it had been offered with a half grin, like they were doing Leon a favour.

He’d snarled. “I know what a fucking pit fight looks like, idiot.” He came from Dunwall, well enough. Backstreet pit fighting was so common, even eight years after the plague, that Corvo had dispatched a Messenger or two to help the City Watch break them up many times. Quietly, Leon had wondered if he still did, and ignored the painful twinge in his chest.

“Alright, alright,” the stranger had scrambled, hands still raised as if to placate him. “Just figured you could do with some extra cash. You know, to help with the Doc.”

And Leon had told him to fuck off again, and they’d all watched him lift the chakram and fled. Then had come the guilt - because he didn’t do enough to justify his keep, regardless that safe havens from the riots and the- _pit fighting-_ were becoming so scarce Leon had seen off healthy people who wanted not trouble or chemical bliss, but just a modicum of safety.

After that, inevitably, the truth of the matter. Medicine cost coin, and even more so when Doctor Cassare had dispensed entirely with charging the patients he saw.

So that was how, despite all good sense, Leon found himself here tonight, for the sixth time in as many weeks, dressed in tight linens and heavy cloak, chakram in hand. There was a crowd - not huge, but enough to be packed into the stone clearing in the back end of Stonemarket, four pillars built well before The City’s ruin marking the borders of the pit. Cheers and jeers rose into the night in equal measure, loud enough to keep away those riots that might otherwise be so inclined to venture close to such a gathering. A pair of men guarded the causeway down, the steps bearing the bloody marks of what went on beyond them. Leon had, as was customary, let them stop him, told them he was here to fight, not bet, and paid his entrance fee.

What little use there was for City coin, as the Empire’s reign grew ever nearer. Leon had been there, in Dunwall Tower, he’d taken orders directly from the Empress herself, worked with her Protector. He knew that it was only a matter of time. But, while there still _was_ time, he’d do what he could for the people who’d - against all logic - protected him.

He was sure they knew where he’d come from. The City rarely saw complexions as dark as his, and his Morlesian accent was poorly disguised. Poppy’s accent was almost right, but there was a hint of something not of The City in her too.

Leon watched the current fight go down in the makeshift pit, looking for weaknesses or, failing that, information on what to expect. He was sure he’d be called in soon; the bigger of the two fighters was the current champion. Up until now, Leon had followed what rudimentary rules they had in place and only fought once or twice - warm up matches, and the prize for winning was far less substantial, but he’d been bet against more than enough to count his blessings and fuck off. Tonight was considerably more nerve-wracking; he’d been informed, upon reaching the organisers of this outfit that this time, it was all in or bust. Leon couldn’t fathom why they’d made the decision, but he knew better than to argue about it.

And he was dangerously close to calling it bust. He had no doubt that he _could_ win - easily, in fact, even if it seemed to be unarmed combat tonight, because The City didn’t hold a standing army and absolutely none of these lowlifes had ever been trained in combat to save themselves. Where were the real gangs, in this Voidforsaken city? The true brawlers, the ones with mentors and Masters alike?

Seemed that all those who might actually have a lick of battle skill were smart enough to make their own way. Thieves, assassins - pit fighting was below them. And, as Leon had quickly figured out, none of these people knew what they were doing. The bloodsport must be a pretty new development, as The City went to shit.

It made him wonder what in Void they’d done _right,_ that they’d actually put a stop to bloodsport here.

He tensed when someone leaned in close, but it was just the official runner; young, probably barely a teenager at the oldest. Everyone had to eat. “You’re up next,” the kid muttered, keeping their voice as low as possible. Leon nodded. “No weapons, neither.” Almost stern.

“Here,” he stripped the cloak and wrapped it around his chakram. “Stash those with your boss. And let him know that if anything happens to them, I kill everyone here.” And it was, largely, a hollow threat - but despite his restraint with fights, the man who ran this pit knew well enough that Leon knew his way around combat. It wasn’t such a stretch to think that he knew his way around assassination too, even mass assassination.

The kid squeaked, scampered off. Leon watched them go in the firelight, eyes narrow; they made it to the back corner and did as commanded. Words were exchanged, and Leon met the boss’ eyes with a narrow glare. Received a nod.

Good enough.

Leon went back to watching the current fight, and blinked as the current champion - what was his name? - lay a kick to his opponent’s stomach, doubled her over, and then brought both hands down on the back of her head. She crumpled, boneless, and did not move. Shouting went up around them, cheers and hollers and a faint undercurrent of simmering rage.

“Kill her!” came the cry, and into the arena was thrown a small knife.

Shivering, Leon scowled into the crowd, couldn’t pick out where it had come from. He’d chosen this particular pit because it _wasn’t_ a fight to the death; at least not on paper. Yielding and knock out were considered legitimate wins here, unlike many other pits. That wasn’t to say that nobody ever died - because of course, of course they did - but Leon had thus far not been required to kill.

Not in the pit, anyway.

So, as the champ scooped up the knife and raised his arms, seeking the roar of the crowd, Leon just watched with narrow eyes. Frankly, he was lucky to have gone this long without it happening. The City was in complete anarchy - no governing body, the laws overturned and those who might enforce them isolating themselves in a self-imposed quarantine that, in the end, would save nobody. It was the rule of the wild, now; and why Doctor Cassare and Poppy had welcomed his presence in keeping the peace in their place of healing.

The champ twirled, even as the woman on the cobble began to twitch and awaken, gesturing for _more_ from the crowd; and so rose the shrieks, The City’s bloodlust yet unsatisfied. He turned back, grinned a feral grin, and let the woman try to rise to her feet. It had struck Leon as odd, the first time he’d realised the pits were letting women fight - he knew all too well that The City rarely allowed a woman to make something of herself regardless of skill - but then, he supposed, if they could bleed, then they could fight. Now, he folded his arms against the winter cold and watched; there was ice within him as well as without.

With a whoop, the champion grabbed the woman by the hair-- _Pain and darkness and the whoosh of massive bellows, and fire and agony, and the endless taste of blood--_ and Leon dug his fingers into his arms and looked away and listened to the cacophony as it drowned out the woman’s gurgled death throes. Raised his eyes to the Clocktower behind them as a faint warning throb started up in his temples. _Thieves,_ he’d thought, _are above pit fighting._ It felt more like a prayer.

Maybe he should just go bust. It was too dangerous to keep doing this. Who knew what might make him seizure in a place like this? And he was unlikely to get any mercy, here - more like a knife between the ribs, and the pit owner would gain a shiny new foreign weapon.

“Who’s next?!” the champion shouted, and Leon’s eyes flashed back to him as it registered that _he was_ like a kick in the gut. For a moment, while he didn’t respond, there was the buzz of a displeased crowd - and Leon realised that he probably wouldn’t make it out alive if he went bust now.

The Cityzens were waiting, and they were bloodthirsty.

So, keeping his eyes off the corpse as she was dragged away, he stepped into the pit.

“Me,” he said, holding his voice at a reasonable volume. The crowd erupted again, jeers and laughter mixed in with catcalls. It was odd, the way he was treated like something _exotic_ in The City. In Gristol, his obviously Morlesian heritage earned him scorn; here, it was more objectification.

A shout rose up behind him, louder than the crowd - the pit owner, screaming to make himself heard, announcing the fight. “Up against the Thunder-” and Leon rolled his eyes, because he would never understand _why_ it seemed to be a universal rule that an outfit such as this insisted upon shitty stage names, “-your reigning champion, is the Black Spectre!”

Leon choked for a second, shot a glare over his shoulder at the man who’d announced him such. He’d thus far avoided such proclamations - by virtue of taking unimportant fights - and now he’d never be rid of the moniker. Some choice words and threats rose in his throat, ready for when he collected his chakram and cloak, but he forgot them as movement in the corner of his eye snatched his attention.

Already reacting, Leon spun away from the clumsy grab and danced back, trying to ease the tension out of his bad leg as he did. _So much for the warm up._ The crowd shrilled around them, but Leon was already blocking them out, focusing as fully as he could on his opponent; slow breaths, open senses, loose limbs. The key was to hold his power in his core, and not let his feet get stuck to the ground. _Movement,_ always. The champion - the _Thunder_ apparently, he thought with a snort - was short (as seemed the norm for Cityzens, and Leon’s height was just another marker of his outlandish nature); stocky muscles and a layer of hard fat. Heavy on his feet, all brute strength and endurance. Already, he bled freely from cuts and scrapes accrued over the night, but he didn’t seem to notice. Leon wouldn’t stand a chance if the champion got a solid hold of him. It was imperative that he keep moving, stay light - agility and speed were weapons that Leon had in abundance, and right now he needed to apply them with cunning.

Or, at least, halfway decent intelligence. That should be enough to outwit _‘the Thunder’._

Of course, he wasn’t playing, as he danced away from another lunge and then darted around - landed a good kick to the champion’s backside and sent him stumbling. There was no time for games here, no taunts worth risking. But Leon knew he had to avoid protracted proximity, knew all too well that even if he managed to squirm free of a grapple that it could spell his death if he seized. He wasn’t playing with the champion, but he knew that it must look like he was.

Danced further back, circled slowly. The champ let out a roar and charged him - Leon skipped forward a few steps, away from the crowd, and then dropped to the ground as the champion got too close, struck out with his good leg. They connected, and pain flashed up Leon’s thigh even as the champion tangled his feet and went crashing into the ground. Scrambling, Leon got away from the man and up again, moving back so he was out of range.

When the champ finally managed to haul himself upright, his nose was squashed into his face and blood ran freely from it. He snarled, gasping air through his mouth, and then spat blood onto the ground. “You’re gonna pay,” he rumbled, and Leon rotated around the pit in time as the champion stomped across to--

_Shit._

Curls of fear bloomed in Leon’s chest as the champion reached down and scooped up the knife that he’d used to kill the last fighter. Leon hadn’t even thought about it - _stupid, stupid. Now you’re gonna die. Awesome._ And he’d fucking _let_ the man just walk over and get it.

No wonder the crowd thought he was playing, as their delighted crowing vibrated around them.

This time, Leon moved sideways instead of let himself be trapped against the crowd, because he was quite certain they’d be more than happy to put a blade in his back, but the arena was limited and his opponent was big. After a minute of dancing and frustrated growling, Leon realised he’d moved too close to a corner, and the champion charged him again.

The crowd must have been getting bored, with all this non-contact bullshit, because they were positively deafening in response. A split second calculation of distance, and Leon knew that he wouldn’t be out of reach just by dashing sideways, so instead he shifted stance and braced. The champ got close, swiped out with the knife - Leon deflected, striking the man’s wrist with the heel of his palm, even as he sprung up and grabbed his shoulder; caught and swung around, landed on the champ’s back. As quick as he could, Leon locked his legs around the champion’s neck and _squeezed,_ all the while reaching to take the knife from him before he could bring it back into stabbing range.

Flailing wildly, the champion managed to get a grip on Leon’s legs with his free hand, and even as Leon finally pried loose the knife, heavy fingers dug sharply into Leon’s calf - and he let out a scream despite himself, pain flashing up into his thigh and gut-- _the flash and sizzle of skin and fat as they bubbled around the hot metal rod, and a pain so acute that Leon couldn’t even quantify it with words, no sensations that did it justice, hot and cold and numb all at once, except numb would be better, because then maybe it wouldn’t feel like his leg was_ **_melting_ ** _and maybe he wouldn’t want to die--_ Leon felt the impact on the cobblestone and the skid that tore into his shirt. Heat and blood beaded on his back, and Leon felt the brand like it had been afflicted anew - and his hand tightened on the knife he’d stolen.

All at once, the champion was on him. Leon tried to leap sideways, all thoughts of _winning_ the fight turned to dust - he just wanted to get _away._ He almost succeeded; and then the champion’s hand closed around Leon’s upper arm, almost slipped as he struggled, dug his nails in.

_Slamming into the floor, feeling his arm open on the rock, ribs cracking and bitter liquid and the iron grip on his jaw. Pain and tension and acid, fire and fear._

The knife was in his hand. Leon was yanked closer, another hand reaching for his throat, but he spun into the movement - couldn’t see through the panic and the flickering light of the flames, tasted blood in the back of his throat. There was a pounding pain in his chest, shuddering, and all Leon could think was that his ribs were broken and he was so, so, utterly fucked.

Warmth spurted over his skin, sticky and liquid, and in a flash the world resolved again. The champion was choking even as his legs gave out underneath him, the hand on Leon’s arm slipping off. Buried in his throat, all the way to the hilt, was the knife - and clenched around it, so tightly his knuckles had gone pale, Leon’s hand.

The wound was jagged, as if Leon hadn’t merely stabbed him, but jerked the blade sideways as he did. Blood spurted in thick pulses, even as the champion’s eyes went glassy and his hands dropped to his side limply; it covered Leon’s entire forearm, dripping from his elbow and soaking into his sleeves. The spray reached across his chest and stomach, shot up his neck and face. He could taste blood because he was breathing open-mouthed, frantic - and the champion’s coated his tongue.

Leon twitched, but the spurting was already slowing, dying alongside the man. Tearing the knife free, Leon took a shaky step back, feeling like he was wrapped in woolen blankets - they tightened, constricting, and he struggled to breathe. Liquid- blood, in his throat, and he had to swallow or choke.

It became apparent that the crowd was howling only when someone came forward to drag the body away. Leon jittered away from them, shoulders tight, coiling into himself and waiting for an attack, but he was ignored. As he grew aware that it was _approval,_ being screamed at him from all sides, he tried to force away the panic, tried to slow himself down. Deep breaths, easy heart. He needed to relax. He couldn’t seize up here-- _Outsider, he couldn’t seizure here._

A voice rose above the others, and Leon knew it but couldn’t understand the words. A moment later, someone broke from the crowd - another man, not quite as burly as the one Leon had just killed but taller, thick with corded muscle. He bared his teeth, clapped his hands together. Bloodlust in his eyes.

Leon didn’t even hesitate. _I can’t I can’t,_ he couldn’t seizure here and he couldn’t fight again, and the terror was like a steel band around his neck because he knew that this new stranger stepping towards him wanted nothing more. The knife was weighted differently in his hand than he was used to, heavier in the back, and the blade too straight to pivot right - but it was well balanced. In a single motion, Leon drew back his arm, adjusted his arc, and threw.

The knife spun once, and then struck the man in the face.

For second, everything hung in suspension; the crowd froze in shock, and Leon couldn’t hear anything but the thunder of his own pulse. Then, slowly, the newcomer folded into the ground with the elegance of a gutted wolfhound, and was still. The hilt of the knife stuck out from his eye socket - everything within was forfeit.

The crowd was silent, and this time Leon ran. They parted around him, began to mutter and groan and the noise grew as he reached the back corner where sat the betting table and the pit owner. His cloak and chakram were shoved into his arms before he could even think to articulate what he wanted; and he spun away and sprinted. Got a grip on his chakram with one hand, tried to secure his cloak around his neck with the other. He found himself in the Stonemarket plaza, by the time he got the thought far enough through his head to stop and try again.

The Clocktower loomed over him, and he staggered into its wall; heard the clatter as his chakram hit the ground, and didn’t feel it leave his fingers. Loose around his shoulders, but the cloak just wouldn’t clip together where it should - the shaking got only worse, even as Leon understood that he wasn’t breathing right, he couldn’t get it to sound right, scraping in his throat and chest.

It hurt. Everything hurt. _Too much blood._

Stiffness gripped him, and too late the panic flared into pain and an acute understanding that he had _fucked up,_ and then darkness took him.

* * *

Surveying the assembled Messengers was an uneasy feeling. The faint seasickness that Phoebe could never seem to shake didn’t help. It was only logical, that she found herself back here after little more than six months: Lord Corvo had to stay at Empress Kaldwin’s side, to keep her safe from any conceivable backlash. (Nobody expected it, but that wasn’t a risk he was prepared to take - and Phoebe didn’t blame him. She would give her life before letting him lose his daughter the way he’d lost his lover).

And of those Messengers who had journeyed here before, she was the only reasonable choice. Keldin would have returned if ordered, and been resentful and jumpy for every second of it. Annabel would rather see the whole citystate burned to the ground. And Leon… Leon was still here. Somewhere.

Phoebe swallowed that, let herself miss Annabel’s presence for a single moment, and then cleared her throat. Assembled in a room half lost within the Grand Admiral’s ship, with no ears but their own (and seventeen pairs of Dark Vision eyes had swirled with the Void to make sure), and the whole team snapped to attention and looked to her. Backs straight, hands clasped behind them. Phoebe didn’t insult them or herself as to stand on something to be taller; simply stood where she was, and let them look down. They all knew better than to scorn her, after all - and it settled comfortably under her skin, the knowledge that these were her fellows, these Messengers. The only people who’d ever truly know her.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, we’re almost ready to land on The Eternal City’s shores,” she began, and she didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to - the sixteen under her command were utterly silent. “I’m not going to speak ill of Grand Admiral Haethel, but this is going to be a war, however brief. Things happen. You know what soldiers are like.” And now, a few rogue snickers rose from those listening. Phoebe let them. “Lord Corvo sent such a massive contingent of us for a reason; so we’re going to do our best to keep our zealous armies from razing The City. After all, it’s about to be ours - its people are going to be our people.”

Murmurs now, nodding and agreement. They were all Corvo’s chosen. They all knew what kind of person Emily Kaldwin was. Phoebe smiled slightly, at that - she had command of the Messenger Corps as it had been dispatched, but she knew that she didn’t need to hold a short leash. Command or not, they were her equals.

Which meant, unlike the rousing rally she knew Haethel would give her navy, and that would extend to the four military battalions, Phoebe just had to get to the fucking point.

“We’ve got three missions until Empress Kaldwin installs a proper representative here. First - and the biggest - is population management. Not just of the Cityzens, but of our own people too. Track down resistance factions and undo them - don’t kill them if you don’t have to. We want as little bloodshed as possible. And by Void, keep our soldiers from pillaging their way through the streets. No senseless murders, no rape, no conscription, no looting. We’re civilised for fuck’s sake.”

A few notes of laughter, but for the most part, the Messengers nodded. Carwyn looked _livid,_ but Phoebe had known he would, and just as quickly as she opened her mouth, he got himself under control. “Micah, you’re in charge of mission one. Everyone on general management reports to him.”

Micah drew his chin up, just slightly, at the proclamation, silver Tyvian eyes shining, but he gave Phoebe a firm nod and remained silent. “Second mission - salvage as much on magic and mystical arts as exists in The City.”

“So loot the fuck out of it, basically?” called out from the back, and Phoebe met Rylan’s grin with a sigh.

Snickering amongst the ranks. “... Yeah, basically.” Hated to admit it, but he was right. Smug bastard usually was. “The Abbey will burn everything they think is even vaguely heretical once they feel safe enough to venture over here. You all know why it’s important that we save as much as we can. I will lead that mission.”

And she felt bad already, abdicating the lead on the third task Corvo had assigned them, but it was safer this way. She was quite certain that her ‘familiar face’ would bring naught but trouble in the endeavour; and… if she was honest… she wasn’t an impartial party.

“Third mission is need to know.” To the general sighs and groans, but the complete lack of protest. They were spies - it was only natural that they want to _know_ \- but they belonged to Corvo, unconditionally. “Jay,” Phoebe called, and saw the red hair and freckles bounce back up to look. “Your lead on this. You get two.”

Everyone’s heads swivelled to Jay, and she coughed slightly into her hand. Whether she was covering embarrassment or pride, Phoebe wasn’t sure - she didn’t rightly care either way.

Light grey eyes scanned the Messengers. They stopped and caught on Lucien, and Phoebe fought down the ripple of tension; Lucien was a skilled Messenger, but he just wasn’t magically equipped to handle this task. All Jay knew was that it was so top secret, Phoebe wouldn’t even tell the others what it was - and that, alone, should be enough to inform her decision. A silent apology in her eyes, briefly, and then she passed the unspoken test and moved on.

Her lips pursed. “Nevaeh, Keenan. On me.”

Again, Phoebe smiled.

“Alright you three, up here. Kataline, Laylan, Lucien, Everett - you’re on looting duty with me. Wait in the Grand Admiral’s quarters, I’ll be up to brief you shortly. Everyone else, you’re with Micah.” And she looked to him again. “Take our rooms for your brief. Decide for yourself how you’ll handle it. You’re all dismissed.”

The four Messengers Phoebe had chosen (she’d picked in advance, although Keenan had been on her list above Everett - not that she begrudged Jay the swap) found each other and navigated up towards the deck of the ship. Behind Micah, everyone else fell into line and headed towards the rooms the Messengers had claimed as their own - and within seconds, Phoebe was left with Jay, Keenan, and Nevaeh.

She took a deep breath.

And she _didn’t_ do a sweep with Dark Vision, because the Void would show in her eyes and she trusted her kin, damn it.

“You’ve all read the reports of our last mission here?” she began. Three nods met her words, and she wished that they made her feel better. “Here’s what they omitted: Corvo enlisted the aid of a local thief named Garrett.” And if they were surprised that the official reports hadn’t been entirely truthful, they didn’t even blink. “Garrett’s a heretic - not like us, not exactly. The Outsider has nothing to do with him. He carries the gifts of another god.”

 _That_ got her three sets of raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “Another…?” Nevaeh managed, her voice thin.

Letting her shoulders slump, Phoebe rubbed her face. “Yeah. Corvo wouldn’t tell me much, but I know she’s called the Primal. When my team finds mention of her in what we salvage, as far as you’re concerned that’s the first we know.” They nodded, murmuring their assent, but it did little to stay the shock in their faces. “Stow that,” she told them, sharper than she meant, and immediately they were back at attention, faces blank.

Phoebe wasn’t sure if she was pleased or just seasick.

“Your task is twofold. Firstly, you’re going to uphold a promise, on Lord Corvo’s honour: keep Garrett safe.” Silence. “Try not to interfere with him, just make sure you know where he is, and keep him and our forces separate. It’d be best if you extend the courtesy to his friends and allies. Corvo only promised to keep Garrett intact, but I don’t want to go home with _that_ report, do you?”

“Phoebe,” came Keenan’s voice; hesitant and low. It sounded like a protest in the making, but Phoebe narrowed her eyes and studied him - allowed it. “... It doesn’t take three of us to keep track of one thief.”

“He’s a _heretic.”_ As if he was stupid, and it was too harsh but Phoebe wanted him to understand. “He’s not like us, he’s like Corvo. Chosen. Watch his back, learn his patterns if you must, keep our people the hell away from him - coordinate with Micah’s team if you can do so without telling them anything - but for the Outsider’s sake, _do not_ engage him. Am I clear?”

And that, as steely as she could. If possible, their backs became even straighter. “Yes, Lady Hellstrom,” they chorused, and Phoebe nodded. Waved a hand for them to relax.

“Secondly… is Leon.”

Wide eyes, and Nevaeh took a step closer despite herself. “Is he okay? Are you going to tell us what _happened_ to him?” Controlled, her voice tight, and she held back the hundred other questions Phoebe could see boiling behind her eyes at that. Corvo had bound them to silence, and the report on Leon’s loss was fleeting. _Gave much for the Crown. Honourably discharged._

Most all the other Messengers had asked once, and then hadn’t tried again. When Corvo told them to stay their questions, no matter how much it hurt, they obeyed. Even now, Phoebe simply bit her lip and offered a half shrug. “He’s in The City,” was all she gave them, and even that - she knew - was treading a dangerous line. “If you see him, make sure he’s okay. Keep him safe.”

A long pause, while they looked at each other, unsettled by the tremor in Phoebe’s voice. One by one, Nevaeh last, they turned back and waited. Phoebe hated herself for the next order she was about to lay upon them, hated the fact that they’d all lost their brother and likely none of them would ever know what had happened to Leon. She wondered, sometimes, if it was better knowing the horrible truth, better than whatever savageries they imagined - or if she’d rather just wonder if he was dead.

 _No._ That was unfair. She _already_ wondered if he was dead.

“If you don’t see him, I forbid you to seek him out.” She watched, as their eyes went dim. But it was easier, hearing it in a clear cut command; _forbidden,_ rather than just ‘don’t’. “You are not to say a word of this to anyone. Nothing.” And a pang of remorse, as Jay’s mouth twitched and tightened, her nose scrunched slightly. It was never easy, lying to those you loved - and their lives demanded it of them all too often. “If Leon is with Garrett, you’re forbidden from engaging.”

And that one was a long shot, she knew - Garrett likely wanted nothing to do with any of them, and Phoebe couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Even in the face of it… Leon was a creature of passion, even as carefully controlled as it had to be working as a Messenger. She doubted that training would have left him, but he had stayed - at least in part - for the thief. It was within the realm of possibility.

They finally looked away as she gave them the last pronouncement, and they didn’t understand but they knew better than to ask. _Besides,_ Phoebe thought mournfully, _if Garrett would speak to any of us again, it would be Leon._

“You’ve got your mission. Follow Jay’s orders.”

Hands went over hearts, palms splayed flat and elbows tucked close, fingers wide over ribs, in Messenger salute. She returned it.

“Try not to get caught. Don’t die,” she offered them the Messenger’s pseudo-traditional goodbye, and then she let them go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Let me fucking tell you, seventeen Messengers was a fucking mistake because I had to NAME all those bitches_  
>  Learn by example kids, don't introduce stupid amounts of characters for no reason (even though there's obviously a reason) ugh
> 
> P.S. oh gods Leeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn


	3. What Words Cannot Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, once again, a saviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit short this one. Oh well.
> 
> Warning: Garrett gives some less than stellar advice regarding seizures in this chapter. Remember kids, it’s like 1845 alt-timeline where he is, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. If you see someone (or an animal) have a seizure, the best thing you can do for them is keep the environment as quiet and dark as possible, don’t touch them unless you have to, and keep an eye on them. As little extra stimulation as possible. If they _do_ vomit, obviously don’t let them choke on it. If the seizure lasts more than three minutes, or they have multiple within a short period of time, call an ambulance or your local vet clinic (depending on if it’s a human or not). In fact, if it’s an animal, call your vet anyway.  
>  You can ask a person what should be done when they come out of it. They’ll know if it’s unusual or not. Don’t rush them.

The night was, as far as it went these days, relatively quiet. Garrett sat hidden in the shadows halfway up the Clocktower, watching the plaza. He wasn't so worried about the Mourningside gates - the Queen rarely abided riots in her street. A few groups passed through, and Garrett kept his bow on his knees, ready to fire off warning shots if need be. Blunts or flame arrows aimed well away from the people - he didn’t carry sharps in his quiver anymore. They moved on, rowdy and angry and riled, but with no indication of storming the Burrick; and Garrett was, largely, left to his own thoughts.

He wasn't entirely sure it was a good thing.

Still, when the shouts rose up from nearby, and brought with them a cheering quite unlike the frenetic howling of a mob, Garrett found himself not at all reassured. And yet, he clipped his bow back into place and made his way towards it. Curious, if morbidly so. It only took a minute to creep into place, hidden so far above eye level and with shadow on all sides.

The crowd wasn't particularly big yet, but they were loud; in one of the corners of the monument courtyard, a table, with two men standing behind. One, dealing with the majority of those assembled, seemed to be taking bets - if the small coin bags being exchanged were any indication. Garrett’s palms itched to lift the whole lot. Ignoring the urge, he looked to the other. A short, stocky man spoke low, head tilted forward. Too far away to make out their individual voices. At least… on his own.

Garrett focused, closed his eyes to concentrate, and picked out the conversation through the buzz.

_ “...nder- Hey, fuckin’ relax. Yeah yeah, no weapons, a’ight?” _

_ “This place is getting boring, Nyk.” _ Growled, by the lower voice; closer, just by a fraction as it reverberated through the Primal, and Garrett took a solid gamble on it being the bulky one.  _ “Ain’t a good fight if no one bleeds.” _

There was a low noise.  _ “You said you wanted to fight everyone.” _ A grunt of confirmation.  _ “So don’t be stupid. We’ve got that fucker with that throwing weapon tonight, if his pattern holds. You wanna lose something?” _

And a few moments of soft Primal whispers as that was considered.  _ “So no weapons. Throw me a knife or something. Make it a pit weapon ‘stead of mine.” _

_ “You can’t kill all the other fighters, idiot. There’ll be no one left to fight.” _

There was a low grin in the voice that responded.  _ “Yeah? I can in any other outfit. You wanna run this shit without a champion?” _

The (much more reasonable) voice sighed.  _ “... Alright. Fine. I’ll make sure you get a knife.” _

Unfocusing, Garrett opened his eyes again and squinted down into the crowd. It was still growing, excited chatter and the occasional argument breaking out between those who had already placed bets - or were waiting to do so. He frowned, studying the set-up; nobody would step foot between the pillars, instead opting to remain outside of their invisible border.

They were setting up… organised fights? It seemed absurd, and yet here were all these people, apparently on board and willing to spend coin and blood to do so. All too aware of his promise to Basso, Garrett nevertheless stayed to watch for a while, trying to understand. From what little else he picked up, as the crowd became denser and the apparent champion finally broached the unspoken barrier and wandered right into the centre of the courtyard - hands in the air, to deafening cheering - it appeared to operate just like the dog fights he’d avoided like the Gloom.

Except people weren’t fighting their dogs, here. They fought each other.

When the first opponent came forward, Garrett felt his whole body clench - a thin slip of a creature, nimble on their feet and far too wastral to stand a chance - and he turned and left without another thought. All curiosity gone, all desire to watch squashed. He didn’t want to watch a man who might as well have been a bull kill a kid with his bare hands.

And somehow, he didn’t doubt that if he’d stayed, then he’d see just that.

There was no sound of rioting as he made his way back to the plaza, but the raging crowd’s shouting followed him every step of the way. Made a circuit of the plaza, wove through the rooftops until he was sure it was all clear - and even though he’d left, he heard the moment when the ‘champion’ won. It came as a split second of sudden silence, and then a shrieking wave of cheering and whooping, and even as he stopped dead halfway up the Clocktower walls, he found himself numb.

Maybe it was the chill of the stone against his fingers, even with the new cloak around his shoulders; warmer than the last, this one. Thicker. He’d expected to run into problems with it, sooner rather than later, but thus far he’d had none. Quietly, he suspected it was the Primal’s influence. It had started as smaller things, but he was sure now, after two seasons - with his magic in alignment, or uncorrupted, or whatever the Primal had done to fix it, he was faster and stronger than before. Sleeker of movement, lighter of tread. He’d always been quicker than everyone else and stronger than he looked, but these days…

Garrett wasn’t sure if he valued it or hated it. Then again, it wouldn’t have made a difference, in the current climate - everything would have been too easy regardless of his magic.

Tacitly sickened, Garrett curled up against the Clocktower at the topmost point of scaffolding, wrapped in cloak and shadow alike. It was almost warm, even in the winter night, but it wasn’t the season that chilled him tonight. Too close to block out entirely, Garrett listened to the sounds of the fighting, the gruesome roars of approval. Every now and again, the voice he’d assumed to be reasonable drifted out louder than the others; not enough that he could distinguish the words, but he recognised it all the same.

He was lucky, he supposed. Basso’s walls and the whispered howl of the Primal drowned out all of this when he was there practicing magic, and otherwise he practiced elsewhere. Then again, the thought was nonsensical. They’d obviously been at this a while, and yet this was the first night Garrett had heard it? There had to have been nights spent in the Clocktower since this had begun, nights not spent at the Burrick or out in The City running himself ragged with the Primal or scouring the hidden places he knew looking for clues about the gods.

Yes, of course he had spent nights here. So why…?

Frustrated, Garrett huffed sharply, fingers held to his mouth for the warmth of his breath. Maybe he’d just assumed it was the sound of riots and dismissed it. After all, he was safe inside the Clocktower.

“Not for long.” Muttered to himself, bitterly - and it dug in his chest, the truth of that sentiment. He needed to be more careful. Not even the Clocktower would be safe once the Empire arrived. Garrett wasn’t fool enough to trust Corvo on his word - sure, maybe he wouldn’t already be on the invaders’ most wanted list the moment they showed up, but Garrett had no doubt that not mentioning him outright was as far as Corvo’s grace would go, if it went anywhere at all. If he wanted to survive The City’s fall to the Empire, he had to be  _ smart. _

And he had to keep his guard up. Even in the one place that had offered him any peace--  _ No. _ Scratch. Even in both places that had offered him any peace in the last thirteen years. They wouldn't protect him for much longer.

He hadn't moved from his perch when he heard, after the (not distant enough) crowd screamed their delight of what surely was death, the sudden silence. Looking towards the anomaly, Garrett frowned - rose to his feet, coiled. As he crept down the scaffolding to the plaza arch, the noise slowly returned; faint jeering at first, and then shouting again but this time they didn't sound happy. If anything, the human dogfight seemed to be devolving into a riot of their own, based solely on the angry yells.

Footsteps, heavy and frantic, and then a figure came tearing into the plaza, unsteady on its feet, something round carried in one hand, cloak billowing behind it. Garrett watched the lone stranger slow, stumble and crash into the Clocktower wall, and then the circular thing fell to the ground with a loud clatter. They twitched strangely, let out a choking sound that was barely audible over the crowd-turned-riot, and then collapsed. For a moment, Garrett watched in trepidation, but they stayed on the ground, shuddering and shaking uncontrollably. The cloak splayed uselessly around them. There was something odd, about their appearance in the night, something more so than how they convulsed.

Something flipped in the back of his mind.  _ Seizure.  _ And Garrett tried to ignore the odd taste of fear in his throat at the realisation, rationalised it and thought about what he knew about seizures even as he found himself slipping down the arch and slinking across to them.

Tried not to think about how he'd recognised it before ever recalling the medical textbooks he'd inherited from Master Amber, or the others he'd stolen himself.

It was only when he got close, stomach turning and heart racing and not wanting to admit to either, that he realised what had struck him as odd; dark skin, that didn't reflect what little light there was like his own pale complexion did. Dark skin, and Garrett got close enough to see, and recognised him.

_ Leon. _

For a moment, he couldn't do anything more than stare. What the hells was he doing here?  _ How _ was he here? Why wasn't he back in the Empire, with the rest of them? And then, it struck him again, and Garrett half knelt and reached out to drag Leon onto his side.  _ Fuck. _ And the heavy iron smell rose to meet him when he touched, even through the scarf over his nose, and the faint queasiness Garrett had nursed all night ruptured into nausea as he realised his hands were sticky just touching Leon, noted the glisten of blood. Wondered if it was Leon’s own - or if it wasn't. Tried not to breathe it in, even so close, tried to think about the tremors under his hands instead.

Garrett had read about seizures plenty, theoretically knew what to do - keep Leon on his side in case he vomited, try to minimise movement, something about him biting his tongue? - the image of the tear in his tongue after they'd rescued him rose to the forefront of Garrett’s mind. Muttering curses, Garrett shifted so he had better grounding and held Leon on his side, fighting the convulsions overtaking his body, and trying to hear any other approach over the pounding of his own heart.

No one came, and the seconds stretched into a minute as Garrett gradually felt the cold seep into him. How long was he supposed to wait before the seizure stopped? He knew there was a time limit, a point at which a doctor would drug Leon to artificially end it - couldn't remember what it was. A shudder passed under his hands, another.

Erin's memories swirled behind his eyes, the needles and the testing and-- other things, that he couldn't quite define, things he didn't remember, now or before. Teeth clenched, Garrett tried to arrest the thoughts, pushed it all away because it didn't matter, that was  _ over _ and he and Erin were safe, and he needed to concentrate on this now - and how long had it been already?  _ Fuck,  _ and then Garrett realised, with a jolt, that Leon was almost still under his touch.

He was shivering, still, but when Garrett looked down at him, Leon stared back. Silent, wide-eyed. There was fear there, and Garrett felt it in the Primal, little curls like whispers on his skin, but it was quiet. Leon was unblinking, even as a shimmer came over his eyes, and then Garrett felt the sharp jerk of a sob withheld, heard it grind behind Leon's teeth. As if he'd been stung, Garrett withdrew his hands and moved back.

“S-sorry,” Leon managed, voice jagged and exhausted and harbouring as yet more swallowed tears. “I-I'm… sorry.” Almost inaudible. He barely opened his mouth to speak.

Another quick glance around ascertained that there was no one else nearby. “You're injured.” Again. Still? Garrett couldn't be sure, but it had been so long, surely this was new. And as much as he didn't want Leon to suffer more - of course he didn't, what kind of monster  _ (Harlan)  _ would wish more on Leon after everything - but he prayed that it wasn't all someone else's blood. There was too much; Leon was saturated. If it was someone else's, they were dead.

“I'm f-fine.” Weakly protested, and he hadn't even tried to get off the ground yet. Garrett narrowed his eyes, was acutely aware that Leon's hadn't left him once.

“You're a worse liar than I am,” he corrected. “You can't even get up.”

Stupid, to call him out. Almost instantly, Leon got his hands under him and tried to sit up - shuddered with the effort, and the fear spiralled higher and cut into Garrett with Primal tingles. He hissed, even as Leon collapsed again from the effort.

Scowling, Garrett shook his head. “Don't be stupid. You just had a fucking seizure.” It was the fear, not even his own; Garrett was too on edge, twitchy, but he couldn't help it. Still didn't understand why he could sense these things with the Primal now, didn't know how to turn it off. But either way, if he left Leon here then it was as good as putting an arrow through his skull with his own hands. Shuddered himself, blood on his hands, red souls winking out. Shook it off, best as he could.

Leon had finally looked away. “... I know. It- It's fine. It happens.” Resigned. Still on the verge of- no, not. Leon had half-hidden his face in his cloak, against the stone ground, but he was crying.

_ It happens.  _ But Garrett couldn't contemplate that now. Like hells he'd gone through everything he had just to let Leon die anyway. “Where have you been staying?” Bloody and weak, but Leon was otherwise in too good a condition to have been sleeping rough the past two seasons. Cheap but decent clothes under the blood, thick warm cloak. He wasn't starved-thin, wasn't muscle-stripped.

Glanced back up, but this time it was shame that dropped Leon's gaze. “... With Doctor Cassare. In… In Dayport.”

Garrett swallowed an annoyed sound. Leon would never make it that far like this, and while Garrett  _ could _ carry him there, it likely wouldn't go well for either of them. Not to mention, the last time he'd risked the endeavour he'd had backup (even if it was hard to think of the Imperials as ‘backup’) and The City hadn't been a boiling pot of riots and strife. And the Clocktower was literally  _ right there _ but Leon would never make the climb, and Garrett couldn't carry him u--

And  _ wouldn't,  _ gods above. Garrett realised he wasn't okay either, only now, thinking about showing a stranger his home, just because he was hurt - and Garrett felt responsible for him.

_ He's not Erin,  _ Garrett scolded himself, even while he ran through other possibilities.  _ I don't owe him anything. _

But he was hurt, and weak, and Garrett had seen the monstrosities done to him by The City's hand. Even if Harlan had been the absolute worst The City had to offer. For a long minute, it bubbled in his chest, the conflict - and then a the sharp sound of shouting broke Garrett’s train of thought.

Far enough away not to be an immediate threat, but Leon's fear coiled around Garrett’s throat, like hands made of smoke, and he cursed. “... That's just fucking perfect.” Expected resistance, as he flicked the edges of the cloak over Leon like a shroud, but instead all he got was a low noise and a twitch of Leon's hand towards the round object he'd dropped.

Blood, on the grip in the centre, but only when Garrett registered the clean blades did he realise it was a weapon. He set it carefully on Leon's stomach, watched him curl weak fingers around the grip and struggle with a switch that - once he managed to flick it - retracted the blades entirely, and then scooped him up.

Leon was heavier than he had been last time, by some degrees, but Garrett was stronger too - he felt the Primal pulse in his eye, felt the warmth suffuse his body. As much as he might hate the source, he couldn't deny how useful the magic was. And unbidden, while Garrett tried to ignore the prickling discomfort of it, and the heady stench of blood clinging to them, Leon let his head roll and tucked himself against Garrett’s chest just like he had the first time. He had the unsettling feeling Leon was listening to his heart - it didn't make it any easier to slow its racing.

But it was just for a minute, so Garrett clenched his teeth and bore it. And hoped like hells Basso would forgive him.

Less than a minute later, in fact, and Garrett had Leon knock on the cellar door.  _ Don't really be drunk,  _ he thought, already fully aware that if Basso  _ was _ sober then he was going to be furious.

“What the f-” greeted them as Basso opened the door, and then astonished silence. Wide eyes showed none of the glassiness of alcohol; Garrett still wasn't sure if they were lucky or not. “Fuck- Garrett?” even as Basso stepped sideways and let them in. He carried Leon over to one of the couches, made sure his cloak would at least stop most of the blood from staining it, and set him down.

Did his best not to notice how Leon clung for a second before letting him go, and took several steps back - the blood stuck to his leathers, and it was with a grimace that Garrett pulled his scarf down.

“Garrett, seriously, what the fuck?” Basso demanded - fairly reasonably, to be honest. At least he wasn't drunk. “Who the hells is this?”

“‘m Leon,” came the jagged voice - still weak, definitely in pain, and Garrett wasn't sure if he could  _ hear _ the fear, or just  _ feel _ it.

It was, as it turned out, a bad move. Basso stopped for a moment as he registered that, and then his face contorted into a snarl. “Are you fuckin’  _ kidding  _ me?” he rumbled, and he took the first of what looked to be very angry steps towards Leon. Helpless, curled on the couch.

_ He's not Erin,  _ Garrett reminded himself again, even as he took a swift pace between them.  _ This is not an Erin situation. You don't have to protect him. You  _ **_shouldn't._ ** And he wished desperately that telling himself that made a shred of difference. Instead, Basso glared at him.

“I'm sorry!” Leon squeaked behind Garrett, and he forced down the creeping agitation of having someone at his back. It still felt less than the twisted sense of obligation he couldn't shake - maybe he was just going soft. Getting stupid. “I… I can go.”

“You can't  _ walk,”  _ Garrett intoned before Basso could kick them both out; he couldn't imagine he was going to be in his fence's good graces after this. “He collapsed in the plaza.” Muttered to Basso. “Had a seizure.”

Basso’s eyes narrowed, and Garrett heard Leon trying to sit up, glanced back and let out a frustrated sound. One elbow under him, Leon was barely supporting his upper body, most of his weight fallen against the back of the couch. “I-I'm okay. Just… need a minute.” His voice was rough.

“He had a  _ seizure.”  _ Repeated flatly, ignoring Leon entirely.

“It's fine,” Leon insisted, and there was a thud as he tried to sit up further, and instead just fell down. Despite himself, Garrett sighed. “I… Really. It’s fine.” Leon sounded much smaller this time.

Narrowing his eyes, Basso moved around Garrett, meeting his gaze the whole time - but he took markedly less stompy steps, so Garrett just turned (grateful to finally have eyes on everyone in the room) and let him. Only once he was by the couch did Basso look down at Leon.

Leon shrank back, and Garrett tried desperately to ignore the icy tendrils that marked his fear.

“... I’m sorry.” Whispered, looking away from Basso and towards Garrett, before sharply dropping his gaze. “You didn’t need to… help me. Again. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“You’d be dead if I’d left you,” Garrett snapped, and gestured vaguely with one hand to emphasise his point. Over the brief silence, they heard the battlecries of a riot outside. “Why are you still here?” And if it came out sounding angry - maybe he was a bit frustrated that Leon had chosen to remain, but Garrett just wanted to keep his voice steady. The Primal sung Leon’s fear like shivers under Garrett’s skin.

Flinching, Leon looked down - spotted the blood on his hands and went still, breath catching. Remained where he was, just staring, even as he wavered his way through a response. “I… I had to.” Basso snorted in disbelief, and Leon flinched again. “I can’t… I don’t know. There’s something… here. For me. I think. If it’s even real.” Voice dimming as he spoke, until eventually it was just a quiet little mutter. Closed his eyes. “... I don’t know. Maybe I’m just crazy.”

“That’s bullshit,” Garrett said - before Basso could, by the sharp gaze and open mouth - and he felt the Primal react to the spike in emotion, felt the heat rise and knew his eye was glowing, and couldn’t  _ stop _ it. He couldn’t stop sensing the fear that hung in the room like low cloud, couldn’t stop the boil of magic behind his eyes, couldn’t control it. Leon’s eyes flashed open again, and he met Garrett’s gaze unblinkingly, pupils tiny pinpricks in glistening red-brown. “Why are you here? What do you  _ want?” _

And he didn’t mean to, but the Primal suffused his voice and the heat in his eye spiked - and it  _ stung, _ even as he saw the faintest, briefest shimmer of green-blue go through Leon’s eyes in response, and then all at once the fear shut down. Leon slumped where he lay, staring at Garrett, eyes glazed.

“... To stay with you.”

Already recoiling, before he even registered the words, because he hadn’t meant to use magic but he knew the tingle of it through his muscles, and it didn’t usually hurt until he’d used too much - and then he  _ heard _ the response and froze. Even as he stared, almost unbreathing, the aqua haze vanished and Leon came back to life, only for sheer shameless panic to flood his eyes.

He was already turning away, hiding his face, when Basso came up with a response to that. “Fucking, what?” Garrett didn’t back up the sentiment, though he felt it keenly in the lock of his body and the numbing static in his brain.

Leon curled into himself. “I…” And he sounded shaken, now, different to before. His voice cracked when he tried to speak again. “I didn’t- Just… Just forg-get I s-said that.” It came out like a question. Nervously, eyes liquid, he glanced at Garrett.

Scowling, Basso looked between them. “One of you fucking explain what just fucking happened.” Oh good. So it did look as fucked up as it felt, then. That was… good.

Cracked, again, but Leon replied: “I… I didn’t m-mean to-- I d-didn’t know… Th-that you had mag-gic l-like that.” Shivering, Garrett realised as he forced his muscles to relax and hated every second of it. Leon’s teeth chattered quietly, and he reached up to touch his face, like he was in pain. Flinched, when he did and felt the sticky blood still on his hands. Held them in his lap, hovering above his clothes as if there was any salvaging them.

“Neither did I,” Garrett muttered, more for Basso’s benefit than Leon’s - uneasy even as he recognised how true it was. He didn’t even fully understand what had just happened, but it was painfully obvious that Leon hadn’t wanted or intended to give that answer.

And something Garrett had done had forced it from him.

Beside him, Basso bit his lip, and then studied Leon. “... Ya didn’t fuck off home with the other Imperials.”

Leon nodded, kept his head bowed. “I… couldn’t.”

“Cause of him.” Jerked a thumb at Garrett - ignored the glare.

“I… In p-part.” Still shivering.

Basso’s voice was a low rumble. “So you ain’t one anymore. You ain’t a Messenger.”

A flinch. “... N-no. Not- N-not… anym-more.” Barely a breath, the shivering making it sound half like a sob.

This time, Basso sighed and turned to Garrett. “You realise this is fucking insane.”

And finally, Garrett took a breath and shifted his weight, ever so slightly. Stared down at Leon with narrow eyes. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You already saved his sorry ass once,” came the immediate reply. “You ain’t fucking obligated to do it again.”

Now, Garrett just met Basso’s eyes and let the sounds of distant rioting say what he didn’t want to. Basso rubbed his face, let out a disgusted sound. Turned a glare on Leon. Without looking, as if sensing it, Leon’s shoulders tensed - but he wasn’t even sitting up, still couldn’t do much more than lie there and shiver. “I’m s-sorry,” he whispered, again.

Another sigh, this one heavy and resigned. “Fine.” Growled; angry. “He gets until tomorrow night. And  _ you _ clean him up.” Snarled at Garrett, barely even a flicker in Basso’s face as Garrett stepped back and tensed.  _ He won’t hurt me. _ But he was angry, and Garrett had brought an Imperial onto his doorstep - beyond it. He might. He’d probably be within his rights to try. Barely resisting the urge to reach back for his bow, and Garrett couldn’t stop the hand that came to rest just shy of his blackjack.

But Basso just stormed past and left. Didn’t lock the door behind him. Garrett listened to his steps all the way up and into the Burrick proper, before finally looking back at Leon.

He was struggling to sit up, whole body unsteady from the shivers, but this time he almost managed it - caught himself as he collapsed, and ended up hugging his own knees, leaning sideways against the back of the couch. He wouldn’t look up. After a moment, Garrett sighed and went to rub his face - caught sight of the red on his fingers and froze.

“Stay here.”

And didn’t give Leon a chance to argue before walking out.

It wasn’t quite cold enough yet for water to freeze outside, but Garrett still rubbed his hands off on his cloak - made a mental note to wash it the second he got the chance - and scaled the side of the Burrick silently. A little leverage and a wiggle got the attic window open, and Garrett slipped inside. He could step as soundlessly as he liked - and he did - but there was no hiding the noise once he set the water running. He still did so, unbuckled his gloves, and scrubbed the remaining blood off his hands. It was probably pointless, given he still had the walking mess downstairs to contend with, but it made him feel better all the same.

The other reason being, a minute later, Drathen showed up. If he was surprised to see Garrett waiting for him, he didn’t show it.

Uncomfortably, Garrett cleared his throat. “Could you bring a bucket of hot water down to the cellar?” Doing it himself would be a disaster, given he wasn’t about to walk through the Burrick while there were still patrons inside, and given the shivering, Garrett wasn’t sure cold water wouldn’t just kill Leon outright.

The stare he got back could have done the trick. But after a moment, Drathen just rolled his eyes hard enough for his whole head to move, half threw his hands in the air, and turned away. “The shit I do for these people,” he muttered to himself as he walked away.

That would have to be good enough. Task accomplished, Garrett left the way he’d come, shot over the rooftops to the plaza, and scaled the Clocktower. The stonework above where the scaffolding ended was bone-bitingly cold to the touch, but it hadn’t yet frosted and iced. It was only a matter of time.

Maybe it was worth thinking about staying this winter in the Old Quarter safehouse. It was a rancorous thought, almost felt like conceding defeat - but when the Empire came, if they really did come in winter, Garrett couldn’t afford to be stuck in the Clocktower.

He came back down with a change of clothes (warm pants and dark linen shirt) and a roll of bandages. Just in case. For no reason connected to the Imperials  _ at all, _ he’d started keeping a more ample supply of them. When Garrett came back to the Burrick cellar, it was to find Leon finally sitting up properly, feet on the floor, a bucket of water nearby. He jolted as the door opened, looked up like he thought he was under attack; the wet, bloody cloth in his hands splashed back into the bucket, and then he turned his head away again. Dark cheeks got darker, and Leon tightened his arms slightly in embarrassment. His shirt, bloody and torn now that Garrett got a look at it, was on the floor.

There were scars, on Leon’s chest and stomach; a few. A quick glance was enough to ascertain a decent history. One on his right forearm that Garrett had stitched up - various nothing scars flecked along his upper arms and across his chest. A deeper one, winding up the side of his stomach, that Garrett didn’t recognise.

Garrett averted his eyes, all too aware how uncomfortable it was being dressed down in front of someone. Especially someone who was - everything else aside - essentially a stranger. Instead, he listened to the faint chime of the water as Leon hurriedly snatched up the cloth again and wandered to the other side of the bookshelf to sit on the bed. Still in sight, but not quite so directly. He threw the clothes through the open shelves and onto the unoccupied couch. “For once you’re done.”

“... Thank you.” Sounding stronger now, but still low and quiet. For the next few minutes, Garrett simply kept his head turned away. Judging by sound alone, he guessed when Leon’s ruined pants joined his shirt on the floor, and when he’d gotten the blood off his legs and redressed. There was the kind of heavy silence that bloated with words unspoken, and then Leon let out a soft, embarrassed sound. “Um… I… injured my back.”

It took a second to click, what he wanted, and then Garrett twitched his gaze back. Leon was standing now, albeit on unsteady feet, the cloth half-lifted. He wasn’t looking straight back, intent instead on a point somewhere on the floor to his left.

Trepidation, for a moment - and then Garrett found himself on his feet, unbuckling his gloves again, fighting the tension that threatened to consume him.  _ Stop it, _ he scolded himself, even knowing it was too late, taking the cloth and letting Leon turn around.  _ He’s not Erin. You don’t have to do this. _ Grazes and scrapes littered his back, tiny stones lodged in the wounds and blood both wet and dry woven between. The scar from his stomach continued, curling all the way up to his ribcage. Underneath the fresh injuries, the brand of the Watch was healed, raised almost a finger-width from the rest of the flesh and a significant shade paler than Leon’s skin. Garrett did his best not to look at it, swallowing the knot the sight of it tied in his throat.

Leon hissed, quietly, when Garrett wiped down the blood, and then held perfectly still as he picked out all the stones. Most were small enough that they barely made sound as he dropped them into the bucket, but a few offered audible  _ plops. _

Eventually, Garrett couldn’t take the silence anymore. Not now - not when it just left him time to think. “What happened?” he asked instead.

Again, Leon flinched. But it took him only a second to reply. “I was… fighting.”

“Fighting.”

Leon’s shoulders dropped. “Yeah. Doctor Cassare… He’s looked after me. I don’t even know why. But he’s a good person, and I wanted to… try and repay him.” Sighed, softly, like he’d known it was a bad idea. “I never did any big fights. Just let everyone bet against me for small ones, took back my cut of the winnings. I didn’t… I wasn’t going to seriously hurt anyone. Knockouts and yields.” His voice sounded strained.

“Yields. So  _ that’s _ where all this blood came from.” And he’d thrown Erin out on her ass for killing someone, but then some part of him hoped that there was another explanation. If he’d saved Leon - twice now - and Leon turned out to be a remorseless murderer, then where did that leave him? Maybe he should give in; he always seemed to end up surrounded by murderers.

Now, there was a tremble in Leon’s shoulders, even as Garrett wiped down all the fresh blood again, frowned and decided that he’d been right to leave needle and thread at home. “I… didn’t mean to.” Shaky, and the guilt was so heavy that he seemed like he might collapse under it. “I… I’ll admit to killing people when I have to. Sometimes-- Sometimes you just have to choose. And I won’t let anyone hurt Doctor Cassare or Poppy. But this was an accident.” A sharper note in his voice now, something almost desperate; Garrett wondered who, exactly, that was aimed at.

“It’s not easy to kill by accident. Not when you know what you’re doing. You chose to fight.” And if Garrett heard the same admonishing tone of his teacher in his own voice, he chose not to think about it.

Leon nodded; miserably, it seemed. Or perhaps, Garrett simply hoped it was. “I fucked up.” Self-loathing. “And I just wanted to knock him out, but he-- He grabbed me, and I-” Leon’s voice broke, a shiver ran through him. Garrett paused in the act of getting the roll of bandages out from a pouch clipped to his harness. Got back to work. “I couldn’t-- I just kept… All I could think about was…”

“You panicked.”

Another shudder. “It was like… being back  _ there. _ Again. I couldn’t-- I don’t even… remember stabbing him.” And his voice broke and hardened in the same note. He swallowed. “But he deserved it. He’d been killing people all night.”

Pieces fell together in Garrett’s head. It must have been the ‘champion’ Leon had killed; the one who’d insisted on fighting, like a rabid wolfhound. The one who’d heralded the crazed cheering for every death. For a moment, even as Leon stood hunched and shuddering and wounded, even having seen him completely break down in seizure, Garrett was violently reminded that he had been an Imperial Messenger, that he was a trained fighter.

“But I still… didn’t mean to. And the other one…” Garrett’s blood went cold, and he stopped again, hands hovering. Leon didn’t seem to notice. “I wasn’t thinking.” Almost pleading, now. “He just-- He came up, and I knew he wanted to fight, and I couldn’t have gotten away like that, there were so many people-- I just… So I threw the knife, and I hit him-” Broke. “I wasn’t trying to kill anyone. Not… tonight. Not like that.”

And - red souls going out, Primal whispering - and Garrett pushed aside the implicit admission to have killed deliberately in the past and finished bandaging Leon up.  _ I was right, _ he thought to himself as he tied it off and stepped back.  _ He’s not Erin. _

Leon, unlike his erstwhile apprentice, actually felt regret for the lives he took.

_ And I’m not much better. _ The lives he’d had to take in the past, Garrett felt no guilt for those. Regret, yes - immensely. But he hadn’t done it until he’d had no choice, done it only when his own life would be forfeit if he didn’t; so he felt no guilt. The rooftop, though… Even if he’d been half out of his mind at the time, even if it had been the Primal, even if he’d just lost control…

Well. He’d lost control. Four Watchmen had paid for it with their lives.

Garrett understood only too well how badly things could go when one lost control. Leon had a better reason than most.  _ And he feels remorse. _

_ If only… _

How different things might have been, if Erin could have only felt remorse.

* * *

It was supposed to be hard, to sneak into The Fabled Eternal City. If she'd come here eight months earlier, she imagined that it would have been - now, there was no guard of any kind. The gates were hung open, and the snarls of whatever Cityzens were left wouldn't have deterred her even if they'd seen her. As it was, even half blind and missing an arm, no one saw her enter.

Climbing wasn't necessarily beyond her these days, but it was risky and difficult, and there was little point when she could easily remain unseen on the ground. So instead, she made her way through The City and took in as much as she could. It took several days - and all the knowledge she had left over from scrambling through collapsing Dunwall and the abandoned districts - but eventually, she got down a basic layout. For all that the buildings and districts here sprawled out lazily into each other like drunken lovers (aside from Auldale, sequestered between river and cliffs), The City was turning out to be a poor man's Dunwall.

Navigating the riots was a pain in the ass, but she managed it with minimal fuss - it was too easy, slipping back into the assassin's role. Part of her hated it. Hated  _ him,  _ for teaching her so well.

But… on the other hand, perhaps… After all, she was grateful. Without it, she'd be adrift in The City. Or she'd be dead.

The rendezvous showed no signs of activity, when she made her way there on her fifth day. Unworried, she left her marker to let her contacts know that she had arrived, and went about her own business. After all, it took time to cross from Pandyssia.

She was hesitant to venture right into Auldale, despite knowing that was where the rich and arrogant had made their homes - and that was where she was most likely to find what she sought. Time was a force against her, the longer she dallied. If she had more than days left before the Empire’s invading force arrived, then it wouldn’t be much. When they got here, then her job would get infinitely harder, and Auldale would be all but a lost cause.

So, simmering with the ever-present rage at the Serkonan Grand Guard, she waited until night and snuck into Auldale. It was easier than she should have thought; all she had to do was slip into the tail end of a riot as it broke the weak guard presence on the Bridge, and then slip away again once they were through. Too much anger, too little food, and she danced with it on a knife’s edge as skillfully as if she’d never stopped. It was, despite all misgivings,  _ easy. _

For most of the night, she went from estate to estate, and found most of those empty. Far to the east of Auldale, near the cliffs, was the wreckage of what she assumed had once been an estate. From the scorch marks that ran so deep even winter rains hadn’t been able to erase them, and the way what little skeletal remains there was of the structure bent outwards, she surmised that it had been blown the fuck up. Grass and hedges and trees had been set aflame and stripped down to nothing. Under normal circumstances, she’d have assumed that it was fairly recent - nature had done little to reclaim the land, the plants refusing to grow back from there they’d been consumed.

But wandering the site, just to make sure there wasn’t anything obvious that she might be missing and wishing desperately that she could still borrow shadows to shroud her eyes, there was a faint metallic tang in the air that told her otherwise. Nature wouldn’t dare intrude upon this carnage. Not for a very long time.

The Void struck barren even nature’s most beloved places, and faint though it was, there was no mistaking the smell of the Void.

She dared not venture too close to the centre of the district, where gathered still those foolish and rich enough to remain. However long The City had been in this state, she knew that it would soon come to an end. Either the pissed off commoners would succeed in breaking what barriers Auldale could still offer, in which case they’d probably chew the bones right out of the remaining aristocrats - or… whoever passed for upper class here - or those locked up here would run out of supplies.

When the food went dry, they’d either consume each other, or come out and face the crowds. And either way, nobody won.

Such was the nature of nobility.

Sneaking out of Auldale, with what she suspected was the same riot (quiet now, run out of steam and trudging back towards whatever homes they each had), was just as easy as getting in. It was disappointing, to be returning to the building she’d claimed in the Old Quarter empty handed, but she knew that she was likely to continue to do so until her rendezvous was met.

At least she’d learned something tonight. It was that, as she bedded down with stolen jerky (tough and tasteless - not enough salt - but sufficient to sate the rumblings of her stomach), that she thought about. The Void had been present here, at least in part. And where there was the Void, there was connection to the Outsider. After five years of bitter rage and three years of searching, the Outsider was likely her best lead.

It had been eight and a half years since she’d seen Daud. Whatever hole he’d found himself to hide in, it was time to drag him out of it.

Billie had something he needed to see.

And maybe, if she was very lucky, it would be enough to earn his forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I know this is happening in the Month of Seeds for the Empire and should _probably_ be in spring, but it’s too fucking late for that so we’re all just going to have to deal with my problems XD  
>  Call it artistic licence.
> 
> Note: Just… generally don’t listen to Garrett’s medical practices. Poor magpie.
> 
> Allow me to **die** in a puddle of feelings over Garrett’s teacher-protector instincts.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. What Is Death But Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Garrett can't help it - and then he very much _can._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’m starting to make author’s notes as I write. So I don’t forget things I wanna say. So just… be prepared for absurdly long notes I guess.
> 
> Also: warning for... sort of suicide ideation in this chapter? Not really but if you're sensitive to it then it's there if you squint.

_The fog - this dream - is familiar to me, now._

_I don’t run anymore, and the fog caresses my skin as I wander deeper into it, walking and yet not at the same time. It isn’t quite dark, and isn’t quite light, and I welcome the gentleness of the muted greys on my eyes. With time, I know that I’ll come to understand it. The voice, like liquid chimes and haunting echoes and empty reflections manifested into sound that I cannot hear, but remember the shape of - the voice calls when I come here._

_Not immediately, and so for a while I simply walk. I don’t know how long it takes; it feels like it takes only an instant for the faces to start forming around me, thicker billows of fog that twist and speak without words, but at the same time I remember there being an eternity._

_Slowly, in the blink of an eye, the faces coalesce into the one I know, and when the fog rotates and I fall, it is almost pleasant. The figure reaches for me, the memory of touch made manifest, ever so soft against my face. I melt into it, tilt my head up._

_I desire, as I ever do, a kiss._

_The entity does not indulge me, as it never does, but its swirling mist body comes coiled around mine and I close my eyes. For a brief eternity, there is nothing but its whispery touch, and I remember that it speaks sweet nothings._

~~_Hello_ ~~

~~_Hello, my kindred_ ~~

~~_You’re doing so well_ ~~

~~_You’re doing so well, my kindred_ ~~

~~_Hello, my kindred. You’re doing so well_ ~~

~~_Soon_ ~~

~~_Soon, my kindred_ ~~

~~_Hello. Soon, my kindred. You’re doing so well_ ~~

~~_I’m proud of you_ ~~

~~_Soon, my kindred. I’m proud of you. Hello_ ~~

~~_My kindred_ ~~

~~_You’re doing so well_ ~~

_When it fades, and the entity dissolves back into naught but the slate haze, I open my eyes and am not surprised to find myself standing again. I don’t need to breathe here, but I reach out to caress the fog and square my shoulders._

_This time, when I run, it is just because I can._

* * *

The night, as Garrett went back and forth between keeping an eye on Leon and keeping an eye on the plaza, was over far too quickly. The day, when it came, proved to be exactly the opposite.

Basso didn’t come back down, and some part of Garrett hoped he was at least getting some sleep. It wasn't entirely an altruistic wish; a sleep-deprived Basso was not a Basso Garrett enjoyed dealing with, second only to angry-drunk Basso, and Leon’s presence would only serve to make him even more irritable.

It was a horribly exposed feeling, keeping watch from the Burrick rooftop in open daylight, but Garrett did his best not to acknowledge it. After all, the Watch was all but dissolved, and even what remained hadn’t stepped foot within The City proper in a season. Maybe longer. Garrett wasn’t being hunted anymore, and the rioters cared about him only insofar as he stood in their way. So he stayed, flitting back and forth between roof and cellar; it was, ultimately, his fault that Basso hadn’t slept during the night (at least not in his own bed), and someone needed to keep an eye out for potential disaster. Garrett had made a promise, even if he hadn’t said the words.

And besides; it gave him something to do.

Leon had curled up on the couch in his cloak not long after putting on his borrowed shirt, and had slept soundly ever since. To the best of Garrett’s knowledge, he hadn’t stirred even once. It was hardly surprising - fear and panic and seizures were utterly exhausting.

So passed the morning, and the early afternoon, in slow, excruciating rotation. The hours were long and cold despite the sun, and by mid-afternoon, Garrett was about ready to shoot something. His palms itched as he paced the Burrick roof - each step silent - and eyed the rally that had gathered in the Stonemarket plaza. If they’d seen him, they didn’t care. Too invested in the inane ranting of their spokesperson, even as that person changed every half an hour.

Plans and complaints. Warnings, that the Empire was coming to slay them in their beds and burn their world to the ground. Fearmongering, Garrett would have called it, if it didn’t ring painfully true.

After all - the Empire _was_ coming.

And it was the Primal’s influence, just like it always, _always_ was; it was the same feeling he got when he’d idled too long, when he needed more than anything to get a good heist under his belt. There was nothing quite so satisfying as getting the lay of a mark, of matching memorised blueprints to visual reality - nothing quite so satisfying as getting everything he could carry and simply walking out. ‘Walks through walls,’ they’d said of him before his life had been ripped open by the Primal, and while Garrett didn’t know anymore if that was still just metaphor, it had filled him with such smug pride every time he heard it that he sincerely hoped his magic wouldn’t allow him to do so literally. There was no fun to a job if there was no challenge; and precious few jobs had offered true challenge to begin with.

Of course, at the moment, there were just no jobs. It was an inevitable part of The City’s collapse, and Garrett knew that once the Empire stabilised their rule, the underworld would be the first bit to pick back up, but it didn’t make the reality of it any less shit. Garrett loved the work - the precision of picking locks at speed, of choosing a route of entry, of judging whether a shadow was just deep _enough_ to hide in, even right under a guard’s nose.

The exhilaration of walking in another’s shadow and never being seen. Hells, even - the rare occasion it happened - the thumping-heart, racing-breath, adrenaline-blurring-senses chase through halls and streets and rooftops when he was spotted, his old Master's delighted laughter ringing in his thoughts.

Garrett _missed_ it. All of it.

But there was nothing to be gained for thinking about it. Contemplating what couldn’t happen and what no longer was got him nothing but distracted, and while Garrett didn’t really believe that a bunch of nay-ers shouting at each other in the public square posed any credible threat, he was _better_ than that. Hells. Basso deserved better than that. So he went back and forth, much slower than he had over the night, slipping into the cellar once an hour for a few minutes to make sure that Leon was sleeping and safe and hadn’t seizured again.

It was… a lingering worry that he just couldn’t shake. _“It happens,”_ he’d said. Dismissed its severity entirely, as if it was _normal_ for a person to slip into a convulsive seizure occasionally. Like it was just one of those things that people got, like a cold. Garrett wasn’t always sure as to what constituted ‘normal’, but he was damn certain that _this_ didn’t count.

Thus far, nothing.

It was, according to the Clocktower, approaching four in the afternoon when Garrett came down from the roof and caught sight of Basso again. Too much light, even with the sun this close to set, too obvious, so he didn’t stop halfway down the wall like he wanted to - dropped all the way to the ground and then lingered against the gate, taking advantage of the watery shadow as much as he could. He was still visible, he knew, but Basso was standing near the top of the cellar stairs, hands on his hips and glaring at the sky.

Eventually, he brought his gaze back to eye level, spotted Garrett on the first sweep, and narrowed his eyes. For a moment, they just stared at each other; then Basso shook his head and beckoned. His expression was still sour, but Garrett came closer all the same; on silent feet even if Basso would see the anxiety straight through the scarf.

“Come on, then,” the fence muttered once Garrett got close enough, and led him down into the cellar. It was, only slightly, warmer with the door shut behind them; Garrett pulled his cloak around himself, even as he tugged down the scarf and exposed his face to the air. Tugging a loose blanket off his bed, Basso wrapped it around his shoulders, offered Gwendolyn a short scritch, received a soft warble in return, and then turned back to Garrett. “... Not that I expect an apology or nothing,” he started, almost growled, sounding weary, “but you know that this is way outta line. Right? At the very least, ya know _now_ that this is way outta line.” A vague gesture towards Leon, where he still slept.

Following it, Garrett studied Leon a moment, feeling his brow knot as he did, and then looked back. Took a slow breath, and ignored the coil in his muscles. “I’m sorry.” And it was worth it, to see the way Basso went utterly still, wide-eyed, and then slumped where he stood, head tilting sideways, the faint twitch of his mouth.

“Jacknall’s balls.” Muttered, carding a hand through his hair before sitting down. He didn’t look like he’d stayed up all night - Garrett had only seen it happen a few times, and he remembered vividly the signs - but he can’t have slept well. It wasn’t often he conducted conversation with Garrett sitting down, unless they both were (a rare enough occurrence in its own right). But he almost offered a smile when he looked back up, and Garrett felt the tension ease.

Took another breath. “I know you don’t like him, but I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Basso interrupted, shaking his head again. Sighed. “Look… Gods above, this is fucked up.” Quiet enough that Garrett suspected it was more to himself than for Garrett’s benefit. “I don’t know why you care about him so damn much, Garrett. That’s its own brand of fucked up that I ain’t interested in screwing around with. I don’t wanna see him again. A’ight?” There was something hard, in Basso’s voice, but the anger was absent. He just sounded… tired.

Maybe he really was getting old. The thought sat uncomfortably in Garrett’s stomach, a knot he couldn’t figure out how to undo. Instead, he simply nodded.

A moment went by, when Basso just eyed him narrowly. “You know he’s only here because _you_ asked, right?” At that, Garrett went still. “Seriously, Garrett. Anyone else, and I’d’ve tossed him out on his ass.” And Garrett wasn’t sure why Basso felt the need to tell him that, why it was said in that tone of voice, like it was _so important_ that Garrett had to remember it. He opened his mouth to respond, and failed to come up with something that worked; he couldn’t even think of something sarcastic. Or- no, he could, but he’d learned over the years that sometimes, even Basso took the quips badly. This set off every warning bell in Garrett’s head that snide remarks were unwelcome.

Eventually, uncomfortably, Garrett shifted his weight. “I… Thank you?”

Basso’s expression cracked into a rueful grin, and he shook his head. “Rork’s teeth.” Muttered the oath, but he didn’t _seem_ to be that upset. “Have you slept yet?” And it was a welcome subject change, even if Garrett kept turning the words over in his head, picking apart meaning and still feeling like he didn’t quite get it. It felt… off, in some significant, intangible way, that Basso had done something he vocally opposed, and admitted he’d done it not because he’d been asked, but because _Garrett specifically_ had asked him.

 _He cares about me personally,_ Garrett reminded himself, even if that was still a strange thought. It didn’t unsettle him like it used to, though. Maybe that counted as progress.

Realising that he’d actually been asked a question, Garrett shook his head. “Figured I’m not old enough yet to suffer for skipping a day.”

Basso’s eyes flashed. “Riot, you are.” Gently sarcastic, and then scowling to himself. “Eh… Bad choice of words.” Offering a shrug in response, Garrett let that be.

“I don’t care about him,” he said instead, all too aware that he glanced towards Leon as he said it. When all he received was a sharp snort in response, he turned a frown on Basso. “I don’t even know him.”

“You keep saving his sorry hide. Gone through an awful lot for someone ya don’t care about, Garrett.” It was almost gentle, a faintly admonishing tone that reminded him of his teacher. An odd gleam in green eyes as Garrett met them, still frowning.

“I… feel responsible.” Admitted cautiously, but it was the truth and Basso - as ever - deserved the truth from him. “I didn’t save his life just to let him die.”

Gwendolyn gave a soft warble, hopped in place on her perch, but didn’t take off. Leaning forward, Basso set his elbows on his desk and gave Garrett one of the most serious looks he’d ever seen on the man. “You didn’t choose to be at the Watchmanor, Garrett. You gotta remember that.”

“That’s not Leon’s fault.” And it was too quick a response, Garrett _knew_ that it was, but it was also true. Hells, by technical definition it wasn’t any of the Messengers’ fault that he’d been there. Corvo alone had coerced him - and then saved him. Taken a bolt for him. _Yeah, not today._ Garrett put that disaster to the side; he didn’t have it in him to try and tackle that shambles of a situation right now. Glanced away from Basso. “... I don’t _care_ about him, Basso. But you didn’t see what the Thief-Taker did to him.”

Again, Basso just shook his head, something dark in his eyes. “I have a pretty good idea.” And reflected in his voice, too. Garrett winced, remembering all too well that Harlan had taken Basso in the past. “And even if you don’t, he’s in pretty deep with you.”

Stared. He wanted to deny it, because while it made absolutely no sense for Garrett to care about Leon - there was no logic to it, he’d met him all of twice and barely knew the first thing about him - it made _even less_ sense for Leon to care about Garrett. But he stayed silent, because the magic was warm behind his eye and the sting of it boiling over was too fresh to refute. _“To stay with you.”_ Had he even meant Garrett specifically, or someone else? A general you? And Garrett wasn’t sure to trust the response in its own right anyway. It clearly hadn’t been voluntary - whatever magic Garrett had accidentally used had dragged it out of him by force - and who was to say that it was even genuine, at that point? He wouldn’t put it past the Primal to actively fuck with them, just for kicks.

It didn’t seem to matter that he stayed silent. “Seriously, Garrett. I know you ain’t the best with reading people, but you’ve seen the way he _looks_ at you, right?”

Silence. Garrett didn’t have the first clue what Basso was talking about, and it made his hair stand on end that there was apparently some big Thing that he’d completely missed. He was fully aware that Leon tended to stare at him - but some people were just like that. They stared; liked to _look._ While it wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, there was no reason to assume that it was anything to do with Garrett personally.

Right?

But Basso clearly thought otherwise, and that made Garrett’s skin crawl, because he trusted Basso’s judgement on matters of people. It was some kind of magic all its own, Basso’s ability to read someone just from a few glances. Garrett wasn’t sure if it was facial expressions, or body language, or _actually_ some kind of magical second sight that let him do it; Basso could read emotion and motivation from someone like Garrett read a textbook.

So if Basso said that Leon cared about him, then Garrett was inclined to believe him on the matter - and it perturbed him deeply.

Frowning slightly, Basso leaned back in his chair again. “Hey, Garrett. Don’t worry about it, yeah?” No chance of that, now; but Garrett tried to box it somewhere he wouldn’t think about it. At least not right now.

“I’m going to check on those idiots outside,” Garrett excused himself. He wasn’t running away - not really. He really did need to make sure the grandstanding outside hadn’t escalated into something dangerous. If that so happened to get him out of this conversation, then the task was suddenly welcoming. Well; almost.

Basso offered a soft grunt in return, and when Garrett left, he was scowling at Leon where he slept.

When Garrett returned, forty minutes later, Basso was gone; a tray of food had been left on the desk, and Gwendolyn was very, very still as Garrett laid eyes on it, her beak halfway into the jug of water and a very suspicious torn open potato no longer on the plate. Despite himself, Garrett chuckled.

“Fletching,” he reminded her warmly, coming over and holding out his hand. She warbled and hopped to him, climbed her way up his arm to his shoulder, and nibbled the edge of his hood. Leaving her be, Garrett considered the water; it was hard to push through the habit of not drinking anything offered to him, even after everything that had happened, but after giving it a quick sniff, he poured himself a glass.

Then, knowing he was expected to eat even without written or verbal instruction (and it could have been from Basso or Drathen both; he only wished he could forget how stern Drathen had become about him eating), Garrett took up the vacant desk seat and nibbled on one of the potatoes Gwendolyn hadn’t desecrated. When he put that one aside, she fluttered off his shoulder with a chirp and got straight back into devouring it.

And for some time, the only sounds were the click of her beak, Garrett’s quiet chewing, and Leon’s even breaths.

He was starting to feel the lack of sleep, as it dragged on past five thirty and got properly dark. Only a few hours a day, but Garrett had so much extra time on his hands that he hadn’t pulled an all-dayer in seasons. Hells, even before the mess with the Imperials; even if, then, it had been because he was already weak and exhausted all the time and couldn’t manage it. A faint heaviness in his limbs, a quiet prickle behind his eyes. It was nothing that a good run through the Highway wouldn’t absolve him of, but sitting quietly in relative warmth with a meal wasn’t doing him any favours in that regard.

Still, once the sun had fully set, Garrett got to his feet and studied Leon hesitantly. “Leon,” he tried, raising his voice slightly; no response. For a moment, he frowned, considering his options. Yelling was a hard _no,_ not just because Garrett didn’t want to, but because he was concerned about startling Leon like that. The whole exercise became pointless if Garrett just scared him into another seizure anyway - and there was how upset Basso would be if Leon had to stay longer.

Not to mention, Garrett didn’t want to feel Leon’s fear again; didn’t know if the Primal would force him to or not, and couldn’t stop it if she did. It had been overwhelming the previous night. The thought of doing it again made him queasy.

Shaking him was almost as unappealing, but the key word was _almost_ \- and if Garrett was careful, then it shouldn’t startle him too much. So, scowling all the while, Garrett slunk over and put a hand on Leon’s shoulder. He’d intended to nudge him, apply just slight pressure. The second he made contact, Leon’s eyes shot open and he grabbed Garrett’s wrist, twisting away in the same movement he yanked down; thought and reason vanished as panic erupted in Garrett’s chest, and he forgot entirely the reality of the situation, all but forgot his own name. Instead, there was just the fingers curled tight around his wrist and the downwards momentum carried through them - the elbow half an inch away from slamming into his face.

And then, just as quickly, Garrett was released. The elbow dropped, even as Garrett failed to right himself fast enough - locked straight and rotated - something struck Garrett in the chest. Stumbling back from the force, even as pain and breathlessness blossomed behind his ribcage, and the blackjack was already in hand, even as he coiled and tried desperately to catch his breath. Heat bubbled sweetly behind his eyes, the Primal glowing and ready to act.

Facing him, half-sitting up on the couch with his cloak askew around him, Leon watched back with wide eyes, hand still extended where he’d hit Garrett, the other pressed tight against his own chest; panting frantically through an open mouth. Garrett could see the gaps in his teeth where Harlan had pulled them out - top left cuspid and bottom right premolar.

For a long minute, they just stared at each other, winded, and their gasping the only sound.

It was broken by a low caw, and Garrett jerked - straightened up despite how tight his lungs felt - didn’t take his eyes off Leon, but moved backwards and hooked the blackjack back on its loop, came away alongside the desk. Gwendolyn fluttered closer to him, cawed softly again. An anxious noise.

Finally, slowly, Leon lowered his arm, retracted until it too held tight to his chest. Still panting, but he looked away; did he even realise how vulnerable that made him? “Sorry,” he managed between jagged breaths. “I’m-- Sorry.” Gwendolyn warbled quietly, and with a flurry of wings she took off, circled Garrett once - and flew over to Leon. Landed on his leg, wings flaring as he jumped and then stared at her. He flinched, when she nibbled on his pants and then hopped closer again. Leaned back against the couch as if it would put distance between him and the bird.

Gwendolyn turned her head, studied Leon closely for a few moments with one black eye, and then let out another warble. A moment later, she’d taken off and come back to Garrett’s shoulder; nibbled on his scarf. Automatically, he reached up with one hand to rub her feathers, felt her beak his fingers gently.

Forcing himself to relax took Garrett longer than he’d like to admit, but once he did it logic returned. The adrenaline was still thundering through his veins, making him feel shaky and too light as he moved, but he wasn’t under attack. It hadn’t been an attack. Even the open-palmed strike to Garrett’s chest - Leon had just been trying to get him away. Both for proximity, and to stop himself from smashing Garrett’s nose in; because if that elbow had connected, Garrett had no doubt that’s what would have happened. It had been proven to him all to clearly, in just a few seconds, that while slender, Leon possessed a wiry strength. It rumbled in the back of his mind - Leon had been trained to fight in a military capacity. He wasn’t like them, wasn’t some street-born scrapper. Training and precision and the knowledge of exactly how to use his body to inflict damage.

“You good to go?” Garrett asked instead. Hated that his voice wasn’t totally steady, _hated_ that he had to just _breathe_ after such a short sentence, but it was better than thinking about what had just happened.

His fault. Was it? He’d had to wake Leon up one way or another - but it was hard to blame the man for reacting badly, woken by touch in a hostile and foreign environment.

Nodding, Leon got to his feet, unglued his hands from his chest, and shook himself out. “Yeah. I’m good.” Murmured, even as he finally clipped the cloak secure at his throat, and picked up his weapon. It stayed in his hand while he took a step and then stopped, squinting at Garrett anxiously.

 _Right._ Reaching up, Garrett got Gwendolyn to hop from shoulder to hand, rubbed his index finger down her head, and then lowered her to the desk. She chirped, nibbled his fingers affectionately, and then jumped down - skipped over to her half-eaten potato and got stuck back in. Senses on high alert, Garrett turned and led the way out, using the door mostly because he didn’t think Leon would make it through a window, and he had no desire to fuck up both window and man by trying. Footsteps followed him, several paces behind, and then a pace closer as they got into the dark. It didn’t occur to Garrett to pause, as he approached the building beside the Burrick and scaled it. Only once he reached the roof and turned back to check did he realise that he hadn’t even checked to see if Leon could keep up.

Still on the ground, Leon peered up into the darkness with a strange expression that Garrett couldn’t place. An odd turn, to his lips - something that was almost a frown and almost a grimace, and not quite either. The hand not carrying his weapon clenched at his side, and then he let out a short sigh. Reconsidered the building, studying the side this time instead of the shadow Garrett had disappeared into.

Just as quickly as he’d climbed it, Garrett slipped back down. “Can you climb?” Asked quietly, and Leon jumped a little - hadn’t even seen him come back down. Whatever he was thinking, he’d been lost in it.

“Yeah, I can climb,” he mumbled back. “Not like you can, though.” And it was huffed, still looking over the building; Garrett recognised the flick of Leon’s eyes, back and forth. Planning out a route. _That,_ Garrett was far more comfortable with. Familiar, more than he wanted to admit - and something in his belly settled, as he took a step closer to the building again.

“Pay attention and keep up.” Garrett made the effort to climb a little slower this time, and the moment he settled on the roof, he heard the sound of movement below. Leaning out over the edge, he watched. The weapon clenched between his teeth, Leon followed Garrett’s route with slight hesitancy and far less speed - but, after a few minutes, he made it up and scrambled over the edge onto the roof. He was far from silent, but nothing cracked or fell under his feet, so Garrett just nodded at him. When he turned to keep moving, Leon aligned behind him, almost flanking Garrett across the Highway.

They weren’t even out of Stonemarket before Garrett came to a stop again, and Leon skidded to a halt beside him, dropping and using his free hand to facilitate ending his forward momentum. Even as Leon did the same, Garrett winced; too much strain on one wrist, too much risk of damage.

“Don’t carry your weight in your feet,” he muttered, looking out to survey the cluster of torches making their way through the street. Not a true riot, this time - but the group was as unhappy as it was disorganised, so Garrett settled back and decided to wait rather than leap over their heads and risk being spotted. “If you need to stop suddenly, drop your weight down; otherwise, hold it in your legs and torso. It’ll make you quieter, too.”

Leon didn’t respond, but Garrett felt his gaze as it fixed on him; saw the short nod out of the corner of his eye. As they waited, Leon shifted around slightly - and Garrett watched how his stance rose a little, watched the frown. The torches got far enough away for the voices to begin to fade, and Garrett watched Leon scowl to himself and settle too low, ready to follow Garrett in a jump.

It was out before Garrett could even think to contain it. “Like this.” Stood, relaxed, and then drew himself up slightly, even as he coiled back into a half-crouch, holding his bodyweight largely in his thorax. A little higher than he normally carried it, a bit more uncomfortable as his lungs expanded against it, but it was easier to see that way. _Describing_ the action was harder than simply showing it - it had a tangible effect on apparent weight, and it _did_ make him lighter and quieter on his feet, but it was also an intangible thing that he couldn’t fully explain. “Breathe in and lift.”

Eyeing him, Leon straightened up and tried to mimic the movement. His shoulders squared, he tilted his head up slightly to lift his chin, but there was none of the coiling Garrett expected; he stayed flat on his feet, instead of balancing on his toes. Garrett just shook his head.

Leon let out a frustrated little sound. “... This would be so much easier if I could still blink,” he mumbled, shaking himself out before trying again.

Closer, this time, but Garrett let him settle and frowned. _Fuck it._ Let the curiosity get the better of him. “The other Messengers could blink too. Are you all Marked? Bit reckless of the Outsider to hand it out so keenly.”

A low laugh, as Leon shook himself out and tried for a third time to do as Garrett said. The sound was shocking, after everything; heavy and soft like down. “No. H- _He_ wouldn’t have been able to take a Mark. Corvo’s Marked - the rest of us… Or- The rest of _them,_ I guess…” Fading out, gaze dropping, something distant and wounded in his voice. Shook himself. Tried again. “They carry Corvo’s Arcane Bond. It’s… just another part of his magic, I suppose. He puts his rune on someone, and they inherit bits of his power - it’s a bit unpredictable, how much and what they’ll get, but blinking and Dark Vision seem to be the standard.”

And he seemed to wreathe around himself, heels lifting automatically and tilting forward ever so slightly. Garrett held a hand up to make him freeze and then nodded. Expression intense, Leon concentrated on how he felt _right now,_ seeking out all the sensations that might lend him to recreate the act.

“... That’s what… _he_ did. When he branded me. My rune used to be there.” Voice dull now, empty half from distraction and half from… something. Trauma. Fear? Garrett wasn’t sure, was grateful that he couldn’t feel it through the Primal, and yet a little frustrated that he couldn’t pick it out. “... Like this?” Leon took an experimental prowl around their current roof, doing a quick circle, and when he came back to Garrett’s nod, his expression had shifted again to wide-eyed. “It feels so different,” he murmured, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet. A wince, as it went onto his right, and then he balanced on the left, slowly eased out his right leg.

The one that had been pierced through. As if in sympathy, Garrett felt the dull ache in his left hand; winter made it worse, he already knew. Subtly flexing his hand, Garrett nodded towards the next building. “Let’s go.”

And he led the way across the Highway, listening for the footsteps behind him and unable to fight the pleased feeling that alighted in his chest at how even over the course of one run, Leon improved and already sounded fleeter. It wasn’t until they stopped again, a pause while Garrett studied a window and debated the merits of breaking into it as they skirted the Old Quarter and neared where Stonemarket met Dayport, that he even realised.

The cold clamped down under Garrett’s skin, and still it couldn’t erase the dim pride. _Stop. He’s not Erin, and you definitely aren’t teaching him._ Except he definitely was already doing that. It was habitual - familiar and comforting, that the footsteps chasing his were under his command, would listen and learn when he spoke.

It was _wrong._

Nearby, Leon lurked in a shadow of his own, cloak drawn tight around him during the brief lull. “Don’t do that,” Garrett heard himself say before he could stop himself. And then it was too late, and he cursed at himself but he gave his own cloak a little twitch. “Use it to break up your silhouette. Don’t wrap yourself up in it.” A beat of silence, as Leon obeyed. “Unless you’re _trying_ to get shot, of course.”

That was _enough._

“You can get back from here, can’t you?” A little harder than he really meant, and Leon recoiled at the question, as if Garrett had hit him. Not a second later, he was already looking away and hunching his shoulders.

His voice was quiet. “Yeah. I know my way.” Almost whispered. “Thank you, Garrett.” _Breathed._ And he glanced up, stared for a long moment, and then took off towards Dayport.

Fighting the urge all the while, Garrett _didn’t_ follow Leon and instead turned away and headed home.

* * *

He’d slept longer than usual, the day before. Five hours - almost six - and he’d been bleary and sore when he’d woken up. It wasn’t so unusual, this time of year. It was almost downright normal, even if it took Garrett almost half an hour to actually get up afterwards, and even if he only got as far as throwing water on his face before deciding the whole routine could go fuck itself.

The memories, as he climbed the Clocktower right to the top, leaping from handhold to handhold without regard for his own safety, were unrelenting. It was quite cold enough yet for the stones to ice over and they chilled his fingers when he touched them, but despite that they weren’t frosted tonight, even one misstep would send him tumbling down.

Garrett wasn’t certain that he didn’t welcome the possibility.

He’d gone to bed earlier than usual, doing all he could not to think about it, the truth of the day-- And it was hard, as he neared the very top of the tower, to think that there might be any _truth_ to the day.

Winter 42nd.

Settled at the top of the Clocktower, _hating_ so much that it was the tallest structure in The City that it filled his throat until he choked on it, Garrett looked out over the streets. They were so very, very different to how they’d looked the year before; Auldale was dark around the edges, aside from the roving flicker of torchlight that crowded across the Bridge tonight, the centre lit up like the Keep itself, floodlights bright enough that Garrett disliked even looking at them, even from this distance. The Old Quarter was dark too, these days - quiet and dead and biding its time. Those who dwelt there still were too frightened or too clever to risk their own light, painting a target on their back for the few who still roved the rooftops there at night. The number was, Garrett knew, pitifully few.

The number of thieves had exploded as The City had first fallen into disarray, and Garrett had watched them run rampant across the Highway like swarms of rats, picking apart each district in turn as if they were carcasses to scavenge. Now, two seasons later and with winter well and truly holding The City in its jaws, most of the desperate and the opportunistic had either settled or fled.

It was difficult to consider the chaos in the streets as _illegal_ activity anymore - difficult to think of the perpetrators as _criminals._ You couldn’t break the law if there was no law to begin with.

All the same, it made Garrett’s teeth clench and his skin crawl when he thought about it too hard. The City had never been a comforting place, but it had never been quite so lawless and dangerous either. Now, there was no structure left - no rules to follow (or not to follow), and the Empire’s inevitable invasion was starting to feel… welcome. Not just welcome, but _necessary_ \- and Garrett hated that as well, that there was so little left of The City that belonging to the Empire was its only recourse for survival.

But, even with all that, when the Empire came, The City would survive. Sometimes, to continue living, change was unavoidable.

Magic and heat rose in his eyes, a constant reminder of that truth, and Garrett looked out again over The City in focus, the lightless greyscale picked out with distant blue flickers. It suffused him in his entirety, seeping out under his skin and percolating into every nerve and fibre, oozing into every gap until he felt hot and breathless, the winter air a biting chill against the Primal fever in his body. The contrast became so stark that it was painful, and yet Garrett was still inured against the cold.

Focus whispers rushed in his ears, so so close to secrets but meaningless all the same, as if taunting him - if only he could tease them apart just a little more, maybe he’d find the answers. _To what?_ But he asked himself the question and it, too, was meaningless, because they didn’t have to be answers to anything specific - they could be the answers to _everything._ And that barely meant anything, because what good were answers anyway, but Garrett still focused and listened and yearned to understand the whispered screams.

The night riots had died down to almost nothing, aside from the routine patrol into Auldale - _So damn dedicated_ \- as it got too cold and the frost adorned The City each morning like glittering jewels. A crown of ice, for a dying citystate, as if it would be buried in its own frozen corpse. The glints of blue were few and far between, as Garrett studied the world through Primal eyes. They flickered in and out of sight, blotted out by walls and distance.

Garrett’s mind buzzed, senses furled out as far as he could stretch them, but it was like the faraway drone of an angry hive - antediluvian white noise that had no meaning despite how Garrett searched through it. For a time, he was little more than that: a magical pyrexia in human shape, incandescent senses and effervescent vacant thought, observing and perceiving, and precious nothing else.

Finally, he turned his gaze down to the empty plaza below.

The thought, the same one every year, slithered underneath the Primal noise, and Garrett clenched his hands in the folds of his cloak; dug his fingers in and tried not to feel like he was swaying. _Would I survive the fall? Could I?_ It was almost an automatic reflex, as he considered the parameters of how he’d fall from here, what would be in reach, what he could grab - how he could use the Claw to grapple if he needed to, where he’d be likely swing and hit the wall if he did.

For a moment, the answer was the same: _I could, if I reacted right, with the Claw. I’d be dead if I didn’t._ And it didn’t frighten him in the slightest, the idea that falling meant probable death. A year and a half - maybe more - after waking up in the back of a beggar’s cart, in the middle of a plague, toxic with the Primal’s magic and missing a whole year - finally, _finally,_ he trusted his body the same way he had before. His training was intact, his reflexes fine-tuned, and he’d gained back all the weight and strength he’d lost while the Primal had consumed him. If he slipped off the top of the Clocktower, he had every belief he was capable of saving himself.

He just wasn’t sure that he… _wanted_ to, if he slipped. That, more than the idea of actually slipping, tightened his chest as he looked down.

Then, the flat greys of focus blurring the distance he knew was there, Garrett considered the thought that maybe… it  just _wouldn’t_ be lethal anymore. Was there magic somewhere inside him that would save him? Things he hadn’t figured out yet, things he couldn’t control - but they always seemed to pop up by some instinct he couldn’t predict, and falling to his death would definitely qualify.

Rubbing his face, Garrett closed his eyes and sighed. _Winter 42_ _nd_ _._ He always expected it to be easier.

It never was.

“Whoever invented birthdays should be fired,” he muttered to himself, blinking open his eyes to take another scan of the plaza and The City at large. While he did his best not to think about it, the memories associated with the date weren’t the only reason Garrett found himself up here, hidden away as high as The City could go, wondering if he could live the fall. _Well… maybe not the tallest but the Keep exploded._ And he’d never been inclined to test his luck trying to scale the Watch Keep undetected.

He avoided the topic of getting older with a fervor that bordered on neurotic; he was under no illusions that he’d retire one day and live to be grey and feeble. Even if he could have stomached it, even if he could one day tolerate never haunting The City and stealing everything he wanted, he knew where the life of a thief ended. One day, he’d slip up, or he’d get too slow, or he’d just _stop caring_ \- and he’d get himself killed. It was just reality.

And every Winter 42nd, that day got closer and closer with the same inexorable _tick tick_ of the Clocktower’s gears. Under his feet, the seconds went by in constant rumbles, and Garrett couldn’t escape the downwards spiral of the future, _One day I’ll die, by rope, by arrow or bolt - I’ll bleed out or burn,_ and it spun like vertigo as he stared at the plaza below, and thought about what the spiral down to stone might be like.

He was thirty four. _Thirty four._ He’d been thirty one, when he’d met Erin on the Highway and decided to risk doing the Northcrest job with her. How had so much time gone by?

Garrett hated doing this, hated doing it to himself. Even if it was different this time, the Primal humming whispers that were soothing and unsettling in equal measure, the world picked out in grey and blue lights that he had no _right_ to see. The reality remained that he was getting older and he wasn’t going to stop, and one day someone would snuff him out as easily as he snuffed out a candle.

 _It’s not easy to kill by accident,_ he’d told Leon, and the thought simmered in his chest. It had been true, at the time, in context - and maybe it still was. But it was easy to _kill._ Killing someone took a single moment - lives could be ended in seconds. It was never killing that was difficult; it was living with it afterwards that Garrett found hard. The act itself… Humans were fragile creatures, Garrett had learned. All it took was one puncture in the wrong place - one cut in the _right_ place - break the wrong bone, eat the wrong thing. One little chemical imbalance in the body was enough, the introduction of a toxin just one time.

Assassination techniques were not something Garrett was well versed in, and Master Amber had only covered the basics - _thieves, not murderers_ \- but he knew, all too well, just how _easily_ a person could die.

One misstep. One fall. One job gone bad.

Just once.

Every year, the day Garrett would make that fatal mistake got closer. And it didn’t bother him, most of the time; it was just how things were. Everybody died eventually. For the most part, he concentrated on the present, on his _life_ instead of his death. If he’d one day die on somebody’s blade, then he intended to enjoy his life as much as he could - so he thought about the job, the heists, the things he loved doing. The burning joy of _getting away with it._

But for tonight, once a year, every year, on Winter 42nd.

Would the Primal affect that, too? Would he survive things that might have killed him otherwise, would he outrun death long enough to age? Would he outrun _age?_ Garrett sat on the Clocktower’s crown and let himself just _feel_ \- the faint rushing push-pull of the magic as it flowed through his body like a tide, every crevice, every bit of himself, every _thought_ \- felt the pyrexia inside him and the whispering winds that were almost voices but couldn’t be, because they never actually _spoke_ \- and wondered, with such a painful clarity that it rang like the peal of a bell, like wind chimes struck with crystal - exactly how much did the Primal change him?

Sometimes, Garrett mused, he wasn’t even certain he was fully human anymore.

_Thirty four. I’m thirty four and (maybe-never) dying._

It was a hysterical thought; ridiculous and unfounded. He was aging, sure, but he was perfectly healthy now. The Primal wasn’t corroding his body any longer, it was in harmony with him - stronger, faster, fleeter of foot, lighter of touch. One day, sure, he was going to die, but that didn’t mean that it had to be any time soon.

Another sigh, carding his hands back through his hair, letting the cloak swish out around him as he let it fully go. The whole thought exercise was pointless. He wouldn’t find anything out about the Primal and what it was doing to him by sitting up here, and he wasn’t about to let himself get killed. He wasn’t about to jump. Even if something itched under his skin, the adrenaline or the dizzying height, the magic urging him on - taunting, goading, _wanting_ \- always plucking up deeply buried hungers and passions that he hadn’t even known lay dormant until the Primal set them to singing and then strummed them like he was merely an instrument. There was a part of him, and Garrett didn’t know how much of it was the Primal and how much  _wasn’t,_ that wanted to leap off the Clocktower. Just to see if he could.

Just to find out.

Was he good enough, quick enough, strong enough to save himself? And if he died - then he failed, and he got to see what happened next.

Instead, Garrett waved a hand through the air, slowly. The winter cold snapped at his fingertips, dug in through his leathers and gloves and shattered against the hot magic, but he reached out to the dark with senses that weren’t quite tangible; all but easy, now, to wrap the second cloak around himself. It was never a sure thing - _Not yet, anyway_ \- but Garrett could feel the shadows curl and coalesce around him at the Primal’s call. Like tepid water just a tiny bit too cool, like the memory of snow and silk.

He couldn’t see the shadows clinging to him and shrouding his form, but he was sure they were there. It fizzed, a sharper heat in his eye while he worked the magic, set his whole body to tingling. After a moment, and a sharp breath in, Garrett released it - and then he slowly breathed out and let go of the rest of it too, watching the few blue forms he could see wink ou---

_No._

_…_

_Wait._

Focusing again, Garrett twisted on the spot and studied the rooftops. Something-- He was sure he’d seen it, just a flicker, _something_ that he couldn’t parse yet, but was just… He wasn’t even certain what it was, but it had caught in the corner of his eye; just something out of place, something that shouldn’t be. Scanning the buildings, shadow to shadow, even as he coiled and slowly unclipped his bow, each movement easy and delicate. If he could make it look like he wasn’t reaching for his weapon, even if nobody was actually watching, then all the better.

He felt the clip give and lowered the bow from his back, walking his fingers up the folded limb until he could get them around the grip, hunting for whatever it was that had set him off, absolutely sure that it would be--

_There._

It was a physical sensation, the magic snapping off. He might as well have taken a dive into the ocean; it was like getting doused in frigid water. Or buried in snow. Primal heat lingered in his flesh, even as it eased behind his eyes and he found he needed to readjust to the night, but Garrett was certain. His bow was loose in his grasp; a good gust of wind would knock it free, send it tumbling down the fall he’d so recently contemplated taking himself. Heart thundering in his ears, realising he wasn’t breathing deeply enough, ragged little gasps that sat so high in his chest they hurt.

He hadn’t seen it leave the shadows yet. The figure. Taking a deep breath, jaw clenched against how hard it was when it _shouldn’t be,_ Garrett clipped his bow back into place, shifted his weight out, and summoned up his magic.

It was still there, expertly hidden in a shadow; if not for the glow of its- _their_ soul, Garrett never would have seen them.

And it glowed, alright, but it was neither blue nor red. Deep twilight purple, blending with the darkness if not for the coiled light of it - _Void,_ Garrett knew now. He hadn’t, the first time he’d seen it.

Hunting now, Garrett swept his gaze around the plaza again, even as he crept back to the edge of the Clocktower and prepared to climb down. His thoughts had arrested, stuck on nothing but _this_ as it happened. One twilight soul, hidden away - _yes,_ there, a second one on the other side of the plaza, further back but no less well hidden. He only spotted the third one when he was partway down the Clocktower, holding the fluttery shadow-touch against his own skin, drawing the darkness with him as he moved, shrouding his form. It was in the plaza itself, at ground level - leaning so casually and motionless under the archway that it was no wonder Garrett had missed them before.

Three of them, shrouded souls - twilit and violet. _Messengers._

Or… Leon’s words ran through his mind, the Arcane Bond, the runes. Maybe not Messengers, but they were Bonded to Corvo, these three. Logic followed that they could be linked to any one of the Outsider’s Marked, the realisation like sand on Garrett’s tongue - but he swallowed it and concentrated on climbing down. It was worth assuming it was Corvo. The Empire was supposed to be here any day now, to begin the invasion; if the Primal’s warning held true. If her fucking with his dreams actually meant anything at all.

And if it _was_ Corvo these three were Bonded to, then Garrett was willing to bet that they _were_ Messengers. What better a force of secret spies than those who carried magic?

Garrett lost sight of them, as he climbed down the Clocktower; couldn’t risk making it even more obvious he’d spotted them. Tried to keep his movement leisurely, but fast. There was a frightening moment, almost down to the scaffolding, when Garrett felt his foot slip on ice he hadn’t noticed - he couldn’t see it, glistening grey in the slatescale world through the Primal - and he pressed himself flat against the stone, freezing up. Held his breath despite himself, because motionlessness was more important than keeping the blood out of his ears.

Only once he had stabilised his grip did Garrett start climbing down again. He’d been right - the thought dim under everything else. He’d be better served waiting out the rest of winter in his Old Quarter safehouse. Even more crucial now, if there were already Messengers here, that he didn’t get trapped in the Clocktower.

By the time Garrett dropped from the arch to the street, the one who’d been underneath it had moved. All he had to do was spot them again; so he slipped into the shadows himself, calling them up around him so they were thicker and deeper and any trained eye would wonder at the unnatural fog of it, Garrett was sure - but it made him effectively invisible. Faster this time, Garrett searched for the flash of twilight in the night. It took a minute - they’d _all_ moved, it turned out, silently coordinated - but then he caught one; still on ground level, on the opposite side of the plaza now, only visible by half a face and the curl of fingers around the edge of a crate.

Garrett swallowed the dread at the sight; they’d surrounded him so easily on the Clocktower, and now he was sure. They were here for him.

_So much for keeping my head on my shoulders._

But he couldn’t afford to sneak back into the Clocktower now, not with them watching. Gods, had they seen him come out? He prayed silently, that they had gotten here after dusk, long enough after not to have seen him leave the tower.

If they had, he couldn’t do anything about it. _Later._ He’d have to deal with it later. For now… They were here, and with three of them it shouldn’t be too hard to catch _one_ of them. Holding the magic, boiling and yet so very light under his skin, Garrett slipped off around the plaza, and dragged the shadows in his wake.

* * *

When Grand Admiral Haethel’s ship had come to land at the ass end of The City’s island (did it even have a name? They were so uncivilised), the Messengers had been the first to leave. Already briefed and organised, and Haethel had still been finishing up coordination with Minnk and Listras and her own sub-commanders. It had been late afternoon, when they’d moored - they’d have at least until the next morning before Haethel got her armies mobilised. It took time to march almost three thousand soldiers from the six naval battlecruisers Haethel had led here.

But seventeen shadows? They’d been out and gone before anyone could even think to ask where they would go. Even if they’d been asked, Jay knew, they wouldn’t have given an answer. Master Corvo served the Empress in more than one capacity, but as far as his Messengers were concerned he was the Royal Spymaster and he operated outside of traditional laws and conduct. He wasn’t even technically required to report everything to Empress Kaldwin if he thought it best not to.

It was a dangerous rationale, and one that had directly been the cause of the late Empress Kaldwin’s demise, but it was also a necessary one. Luckily, this time, the Spymaster chosen was utterly loyal to the Crown. And as his personal spies, the Messengers were afforded some of those liberties.

So they were gone, by the time the last ship had beached itself.

Phoebe hadn’t even bothered giving last minute instructions. She’d wished them luck - _“Try not to get caught. Don’t die.”_ \- as the assembled Messengers had moved out, split into their groups and then further down, in the case of the other two missions, and scattered out across the island and into The City.

Keenan and Nevaeh kept close on Jay’s tail, as she led the way towards The City and their own mission. _Garrett._ His name, that he was a master thief, and that he was a heretic - all the information that they had. If Phoebe knew more, she withheld it. That would just have to be enough; and it proved to be, once they reached The City’s borders proper and flowed over its walls effortlessly. There wasn’t even any guard presence, no patrols. The streets were all but empty in the late afternoon, the winter sun already retreating.

There wouldn’t be any resistance, when the army steamrolled this place. Suddenly, Jay was glad she hadn’t been put in Micah’s position. Getting three thousand soldiers to refrain from pillaging and despoiling everything in sight was going to be a nightmare. Sure, not all of them would even want to - Void, _most_ of them might not want to, but with a sample size that large Jay knew it was only a matter of statistics.

If Master Corvo had wanted The City to retain whatever duplicitous chastity it had during this brief war, he should have sent them _all._

Jay and Nevaeh took the rooftops in formation, running and blinking along with Dark Vision glowing as they searched. This, Jay was certain, was the biggest reason Phoebe had picked her to lead this mission. She wasn’t the smartest, she wasn’t the fastest, and she was far from the best combatant - but Jay held more of Master Corvo’s gifts than most, and her magic reserves were legendary. It was, in part, a large reason she had picked Nevaeh and Keenan as her team. If she was leading a mission this highly classified, then it was _because_ of her magic reserves - which meant that high magic reserves were important. Keenan had almost as much as she did, and while Nevaeh didn’t come close to them, Jay had never seen someone tease such precise magic from so little energy at a time as Nevaeh Holland.

Keenan took the street level, sprinting along. He barely had to duck for cover, barely had to weave. The streets were… hauntingly empty. Had that many died, or left? Where had Cityzens even _gone_ if they’d left? They weren’t welcome in the Empire.

Just how many of them could be smuggled in?

Jay left Keenan to the streets because - a rarity amongst their legion - he hadn’t inherited the ability to blink from Master Corvo. It was a deficiency that didn’t hinder him over much. Even without blinking, Keenan could use magic for days, and he’d inherited a different ability instead. It would be infinitely useful for a mission such as this.

The first clue they got, barely a minute into their headlong sprint past The City borders, came in the form of a wanted poster. Keenan’s whistle pierced the air and in seconds, Jay and Nevaeh had diverted and blinked down to him. He handed it over, in silence, and Jay surveyed it before giving it to Nevaeh.

“That’s… a lot of money,” Jay murmured. “Guess it’s not still on the table, though.”

Keenan snorted. “Yeah… Shame. You reckon we could have cashed in?”

A swat, as Nevaeh crumpled the poster in hand and tossed it over her shoulder. “Are you stupid, Keenan? The guy’s a bona fide _heretic._ Even Phoebe’s afraid of him.”

“Hey,” Jay warned. Master Corvo had done his best to teach them that fear wasn’t a negative emotion, wasn’t weakness or hindrance, but rather served to warn them when they needed to be careful - but it didn’t make the insinuation that their current de facto leader was afraid of their mark any less aggravating. Especially when Phoebe had been here before. “Back on task. We know what he looks like now, even if it’s just a wanted rendition. It’s a start. Get moving.”

And they fell back into formation and kept hunting.

In the end, it was pure luck that they found him. After several hours, Jay called them together and discussed splitting up. They were meant to be careful, because Garrett was a heretic and they all knew how easily Master Corvo could outclass them - but he wasn’t a heretic like Master Corvo was, and Jay wasn’t afraid of him. In the end, she allowed herself to be graciously outvoted, but it didn’t change her position.

They still followed the first part of her plan: head to the public square, and _don’t_ separate out from there. She didn’t expect to find him that easily, but there he was - a coiled figure picked out at the top of the Clocktower, a silhouette easily visible against the moonlight; a silhouette that shone a brilliant white-blue, a veritable beacon, and it was a sign of how limited her Dark Vision range really was that she hadn’t spotted such a gleaming light any earlier.

_White-blue. So not right. Heretic indeed._

Jay could hardly believe it. _That’s too easy. Don’t trust it._ Her fear reflex was in full swing now, judging the unnatural swirl of his body lit up through the Void and her second sight.

She organised them. Keenan on the rooftops this time, Nevaeh situated on the far side. Jay took up the ground position herself; it was the most vulnerable of their formation, and she had both tons of magic to spare and the ability to blink across the plaza. Her range wasn’t anything special, but she should be able to cover most of it in one bound.

They took up their positions, Jay settled back under the arch to watch, and waited. For a long time, too much time, enough hours that Jay’s body was numb with cold and the lack of movement; she’d started regretting long ago the decision to fold her arms, but she dared not undo them. Garrett - because it _had_ to be him -  hadn’t yet come down from the tower, but he cast his gaze about the plaza regularly, and if Jay moved at the wrong time she’d give herself away.

The clock read two in the morning before he finally showed any sign of coming down. Even Jay had released the Dark Vision by then, content to watch with normal eyes when her other senses would suffice to warn her of danger and Garrett had barely even moved. Now, though, he spun on his heel - tensed. Even at this distance, Jay could see how his shoulders lifted and tightened.

Something had changed. Something was wrong.

Igniting the Dark Vision again, Jay peered back up at the Cityzen thief as he stared… right towards where Nevaeh was nestled into a building. Rising panic and Jay swallowed it, as best she could - bit her lip. A minute ticked by, an excruciating minute that took too long - _so long_ \- and then, Garrett swept his gaze around again. Paused - _shit, shit,_ that was Keenan’s direction.

Then, fixed straight on her. Jay stared back, disbelieving: she hadn’t even moved, had barely breathed the whole time. How? How had he spotted her? Fuck that - how had he spotted _Nevaeh?_

And then-- it happened all at once, the shadows drawing up like the rush of a waterspout, and then… _nothing._ Where Garrett had been just a moment before there was simply… nothing. Emptiness. She knew that he couldn’t be _gone_ \- but she looked around sharply anyway, hunting for his form, just in case he could teleport like they could (or in some other way), saw nothing. Risked raising a hand to Nevaeh for a signal, saw the distant yellow glow of her arms crossed above her head; nothing. Her head was turning just as frantically as Jay’s - she hadn’t seen where he’d gone either, or how. Jay watched the brief motions to Keenan, out of Jay’s sight, and then Nevaeh crossed her arms again.

 _None_ of them had seen what had happened. _None_ of them knew where Garrett had just… vanished to. Blinding blue-white fucking beacon, and even with Dark Vision active, he was just fucking _gone._

Jay shivered, even as she aimed and blinked across the plaza. Her position had been compromised, and she didn’t know if Garrett was watching her, if he’d just know where she’d hidden anyway, but it was a better risk to take than staying put.

_Lit up like a fucking moon, and he just vanishes._

Bitterly, choosing a large crate and dropping down behind it. She scanned the Clocktower frantically, searched the plaza for even the faintest sheen of the blue-white glow, and was disappointed. _Fuck. Come on Jay, what do you do?_ She was in charge; she couldn’t just panic now. Nevaeh and Keenan were on her orders.

_If it’s not working, try something else._

Master Corvo’s advice, something so painfully obvious and yet Jay wasn’t the only Messenger who forgot it on a regular basis. She couldn’t find Garrett’s glow, had no idea where he’d got to or even if he was still here - Dark Vision was useless. _Okay._ So she deactivated the Vision, blinked the Void out of her eyes, and tried looking again. Moments - nothing - just shadows and faded moonlight and--

A shadow moved down the side of the Clocktower, almost at the bottom now. It made Jay’s brain hurt, looking at it too long - she wanted, more than anything, to just look away and stop observing the anomaly. A cluster of darkness, thicker than the rest, heavier-looking than it had any right to be. _Moving_ \- she watched it drop from the tower to the ground, swallowed the weird nausea that threatened to tilt her into madness seeing the unnatural shadow, saw it slip under the arch.

It… _stepped._

For several long minutes, Jay didn’t dare to move from her hiding spot, eyes glued to the arch where sank the too-dense shadow. She waved up towards Nevaeh, frantically, hoping the motion was hidden from the arch behind her crates: _Go._ Maybe they’d change locations, or maybe they’d leave for the rendezvous they’d picked when Jay had suggested splitting up. Jay hoped it was the second one.

Even Dark Vision didn’t penetrate the darkness what _must_ be Garrett had wrapped around himself. It was hard enough to keep track of without it - Jay couldn’t see it under the arch and was instead waiting to see it detach. And she knew, deep down, that she would be lucky to see it happen. The sight made her skin crawl, her mind bend; reality wasn’t supposed to warp like that. Sure, Master Corvo did things that shouldn’t happen all the time, but not like this. Most of his heretical powers meant it was too late for his victim, when he showed them at all.

Not even watching him dissolve into Void-misty liquid and swarm another person to possess them was as unsettling as the clumped, viscous shadow when it did - finally - detach from the arch. Garrett trailed his shadow behind him like smoke, wisping in ribbons that caught Jay’s attention and demanded to keep it, even as she was aware that a threat drew closer to her.

She abandoned stealth when she realised he was heading for her. Stood and turned on her heel, lifted her hand to aim and blink up to the rooftop - _No._ Her heart was in her throat, the fear starting to bubble up - she couldn’t get caught.

He was a _heretic._ Full blown, complete magic, chosen by a god. This was no secondhand magic she was dealing with, no borrowed echoes of power. She couldn’t even _see_ him with the magic she’d inherited. Fighting him, she was certain, was just creative suicide. Not fearing him had been a mistake.

And she was under orders. _Do not engage._ Being engaged upon was the same transgression. _Try not to get caught._ Too fucking late. Half a night, barely a few hours observation, without interacting, without eavesdropping, without even being close enough to find out how accurate the wanted poster was - too fucking late. Caught. _Don’t die._

Jay meant to blink away, felt the heat flash white-hot in her rune, a pleasant-painful warmth on the side of her stomach against the bitter winter. She meant to join her team and regroup, meant to discuss what by Void they were supposed to do when he could hide from them better than even Master Corvo or Empress Kaldwin could. Meant to not fuck it all up _immediately._

Instead, she heard the gentle scrape of leather, felt something silky and cool flow over her skin as her rune lit up and the magic surged, and then there was a _crack_ and pressure-- _pain--_ and crumbling and nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does that strikethrough text come across? I’m taking a bit of a risk with it, ah hah, but it just works so well for that voice. Erm- “voice”.
> 
> So Billie is here to fuck some shit up y’all. It always struck me as kinda fucking wild that she spent fifteen years just chilling out never looking back. Like, I get the starting a new life thing, but there’s just no way Billie went _fifteen years_ without even thinking about looking for Daud. She’s a clever cookie all on her lonesome, she don’t need no Dishonored 2 to figure out that Daud (*ahem* Knife Dad) is basically her only living family and that she should find a way to fix that quicksmart. Come on, devs.
> 
> AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAaaaAAAAAAAAAaAAaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA _Basso and Garrett give me so many fucking feelings you guys you don’t even know_
> 
> So my updates are probably about to slow down a bit, because I’m off holiday and back into the swing of study, and that means doing clinical placement! **Yaaaaaaay.** (Can you hear the sarcasm there, because I meant it).
> 
>  
> 
> _Teacher Garrett makes me so fucking happy you guys seriously holy shit I wanna cry it’s amazing_
> 
>  
> 
> You guys I have a problem, and that problem is Garrett doing Garrett things. I cannot. Just. Ugh. _You guys._ Garrett things.
> 
> And also I may have fallen into the Void and ended up frantically writing another bit of [Ye Ol' Dishonored AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210841/chapters/38266604#workskin), so that’s a thing. Sorry y’all, I just- ugh- I am in love with Void Creature Daud.
> 
> Oh yeah, let’s just contemplate mortality Garrett. I stg that’s not what you were supposed to be doing in this scene, but I guess that’s just the mood tonight.
> 
> Ah hah, Messengers. These OCs are outta control.
> 
> Also I haven't edited this yet. It took so long to write! Too many things in my brainspace XD


	5. What New Winds Bring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which faces, both unfamiliar and missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHAHA Now my language is getting its filthy paws into this fic _there is just no escape friends_
> 
> [Translations for Kaede’s speech, if you want it.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qocss-b-ITERtbTCXVnGmY4Fj-jIrlZw7_UKj4XcbHM/edit)  
>  I’ll update this document every chapter there’s Arcana dialogue and link it again in the end notes, so for anyone who wants the full translations, that’s where it’ll be! ^~^  
> (No cheating since I put this at the start. There are definitely spoilers in these waters)

It was the scuffle that got her attention. She’d seen him, on top of the Clocktower - of course she had, circling with the eyes of a seagull on whispering wings - but she already knew that he lived there. Her Heartsong had been very specific. So she’d flown in, shed the guise of a gull (and caught the creature as it collapsed, settled it gently in the crook of one arm so it could heal from her intrusion, consensual though it had been, stroking its feathers lightly), and taken to exploring. There was…  _ some, _ within the tower. It didn’t shine as brightly as her Heartsong had told her it would.

The upper level was full of books, but otherwise seemed to be largely stripped bare. Cold and rough, the wooden floors were silent under her feet. Evidence at every turn, of the things her Heartsong had spoken to her in hushed awe and open fury - but the tools and the things that had been made with them were gone. At the end of the top floor, she opened a chest, fumbling with the clasp for a moment, and found it half empty.

Arrows, beautiful things, lay within. Sharp tips and full, stiff plumage; she picked one up and turned it over in her hand, admiring. When she brought it too close, the gull beaked at the fletching, and she pulled it away with a soft laugh. “Rín ek áé,” she trilled softly, pressing a kiss to the gull’s head. Its feathers lifted, upset, but it made no sound.

It went back into the chest, and she closed it with as much care as she could. For some while, she wandered the tower, occasionally cooing to the gull. As the time bled on, it recovered until it stood perched on her shoulder rather than held in her arm; when that came, she set more energy to looking through the chests and bookshelves, the drawers of the workbenches; everything that remained. She couldn’t read the ink upon coarse pages bound by colour, but she delighted in the attempt all the same.

Obvious, even with the strange hard edges and claustrophobic architecture, that the tower had been recently stripped. Not of everything - perhaps he intended to return? Was it simply a winter migration? - but enough. Still, he was as of that moment perched atop the building, a raven in wait, so he couldn’t have gone very far.

Satisfied with her exploration, and feeling like she understood better even than what her Heartsong had told her about him, she sat on a workbench and settled in to wait.

And she waited.

Time went on, the hours melting into one another like dancers becoming lovers in the moonlight. She was content, playing quietly with the gull as it hopped across the worktable, chasing her fingers with quiet glee, but slowly she started to worry. Her Heartsong would be away from her side most of the night, and she felt the anxiety of it deepening in every moment. She couldn’t be certain that her Heartsong would be safe - although she believed that her beloved could protect herself with her whole heart, the faith of it like a comforting second heartbeat in her chest. “Fán Lantasaría-kana ké lissa.” Breathed reverently to the gull, as if it could carry her wish across the winds to reach her Heartsong. Perhaps it would, if she released it - but she did not.

Eventually, it was the scuffle that caught her attention. The gull had long since settled and tucked its head under a wing, and she remained on the bench, legs crossed comfortably, waiting. When the noise of a fight - a generous term, in truth, but she heard the distant squeak and  _ thud _ of a body hitting the ground - reached her, she moved off and to the window in a single movement, as if she were made of water.

When, in the next moment, she didn’t see the cause, she looked back to the sleeping gull, raised her left hand, and welcomed the blue-gold glow of magic thereupon. A breath later, she shook herself out into her new body, flipped her tail and clicked her beak, and then took off in a flurry of feathers. Gulls were strong fliers, but they were bulky, inelegant creatures; as grateful as she was to the creature for lending her its skin, she missed desperately the glory of the blue shadow falcons, or the great sea eagles with wings so wide her Heartsong could soar on their backs. Still, she flew easily enough in the grey-black gull, wheeled around the stone meadow - and spotted her prey.

He was on the ground, shedding shadows like a breaching whale shed water, flowing off in billowing waves. At his feet lay another - a wiry creature, clad in dark garments from crown to claw, and from his victim rose the bitter-salt scent of the Void. He reacted, when she passed overhead, watched her curve in the air and land on a crate. No suspicion in the gaze - what little she could see of it, between one eye the colour of felled redwood and the other her Heartsong’s precious liquid crystal blue. She cocked her head, flapped her wings, and watched him hook something from palm to belt and then consider the sleeping body on the ground.

No wastral smokelight played from his Astral eye, and she shook her feathers in disappointment. Her Heartsong had espoused his skill, and yet he chose not to even look upon her true self before dismissing her presence.

There was temptation, to chain into his mind, but she degloved her thoughts of such folly quickly. He was a Feeling One, and her mental presence would be violently rejected, outside of either his control or hers. More, as she unlinked from the gull, to chain into the unconscious one. Again, it was discarded. She had no permission to enter the minds of these people, even were she capable of touching his - she would leave their secrets to their own selves.

Once more, she shed the guise of the gull, slipping silently back into her own flesh behind the One Who Feels. Weakened, the bird collapsed on the crate, but it was raised from predators and would recover quickly after only mere seconds her host.

Her Heartsong’s instructions and desires flitted through her mind, and she swallowed the question she’d been about to ask.  _ “Say hi for me. Be rough.” _ Requested with the wicked half-grin that she adored and kissed off a moment later. Not a solicitation for her to  _ harm _ him, but a playful fright would do him no harm. He was leaning down, intending to pick up the one he’d struck dormant. Even so, he seemed to catch her movement when she finally made it - half-turned on the spot when she swept his feet out from under him and flattened him against the stone.

Hot pain surged in her left hand as Astral rose from his eyes, the Void cold creeping under her skin, but she resisted the urge to step beyond time - she did not expect her rough welcome to be a simple affair - and shackled the Void inside her. No good could come from letting her Void connect to the Astral beyond him.

She was already on him, dropping down to cross his ankles with her own and bending over his body; her palms found his wrists and her fingers curled as she slammed them down against the cold artificial ground. Shuddering sparks of impact and bruising flashed through her fingers, but she’d protected his hands from the same and she was satisfied.

He was small, just as her Heartsong was. A lithe, compact body, sheathed in svelte corded muscle and beautiful pale skin like peachflesh. As exotic to her as she was to this place. Moaned - pain, as he arched in her grip, lifted chest and stomach and hips from the stone at his back.  _ The bow, _ she reconsidered, seeing it glint above his shoulder, and offered a frown of apology. A miscalculation, on her part. Even so, she did not let up her grip; and he struggled, as vain as her Heartsong struggled when she enclasped her tight enough that neither could breathe. She put her Void-exalted strength to use, kept his limbs pinned by their codas and let him fail under her weight.

Astral plumed from his eyes, and she gasped as it parted against her face as if it were wet woodsmoke. Despite her intentions, it burrowed through her and wove into her Void - the two recoiled in her chest, repulsed as if by force, and she shuddered. Underneath her, liquid darkness rushed across his skin and his leather, burst across his body as if boiled, and then sank back into nothing as the ricochet reached the Astral and the light in his eyes went out.

They were wide, and her heart withered as she saw naught but fear within. She thought he was to fight, even if their magics fled from the other’s touch, and yet he had gone still in her embrace. Gravity peeled his cowl from his head with delicate, teasing fingers, and out from its shroud fluttered thick locks the same tenebrous sable as her Heartsong’s.

“Ítsata,” she greeted him softly, and he stared in blankness. “Fán lasp ké Iseya Kaede.” Sweetly, belying her position holding him down, hoping he understood she was simply playing. “Áé qú lasp fa Kaede.”

He blinked, once. “What?” he choked out, and his voice shuddered in the exact way that his body  _ didn’t, _ and she relented in her grip as she realised that he didn’t recognise her intent, and was uniquely afraid. The moment she came loose, he jackknifed under her and she allowed him - moved off him and kept hold of just one wrist. He jerked, pulling as far away as her grasp would allow; their connected arms outstretched,  _ he _ coiled against the floor of the stone meadow for traction while he pulled, and  _ she  _ half-knelt and holding with an easy grip.

Tilting her head, desiring to appear unthreatening, she tried to explain, the words tumbling from her mouth. “Fa ímé Iseya Kaede. Fa’mé Lantasaría-kana na Erin. Erin jaftsa f--”

“Erin?” came out on a breath, as the Feeling One went slack and ceased resisting; a moment in the future-come-now, he leaned in closer, a fervency in his face that she hadn’t anticipated. “How do you know Erin? Where is she?!” Almost snarled now, and a flicker of anger writhed in his eyes underneath it.

Frustration bubbled in her throat, before the diction of his words struck her and she let out a sharp noise of irritation, as if she’d been slapped.  _ Of course, _ he was like her Heartsong, from this place - moonlight skin and iceflower eyes (for his case, just the one it seemed), and a strange guttural language that she still struggled to form her lips around. “Erin,” she began again, her voice substantially leaden now. “I… am Erinsa Lantasaría-kana.” There  _ was _ no word that her Heartsong had taught her that encompassed what that was; but when he looked anxiously confused, like he may break away and search on his own power, she tightened her fingers on his wrist and made a better attempt. “My… My love.  _ Heart,” _ she tried instead, finally remembering the word.

The confusion crashed over his eyes like an enstormed seaswell, blinking rapidly as that registered. “Your…  _ What?” _

“Erin jaftsa--” No, wrong. She took a breathe, lowered her hand to the ground and took his with it, tried to align her thoughts back into her Heartsong’s native tongue. “Erin… sends greet. Greeting!” A sharp self-correction, pleasantly cutting, like her Heartsong’s nails on her back. “Erin sends me.”

The tension dribbled out of him, shoulders moulding downwards into gentle slopes. He was… pretty, with his hair in the cool winter breeze and no hostility in his eyes. “She’s here,” he murmured, his voice suspended over a chasm of shock.

“... Yes.”

“And… You. You’re…”

He seemed to have forgotten about the dark one sleeping beside them, but she didn’t begrudge him. Her Heartsong had warned that he may panic; this was still a short swoop away from panic, but she understood how close to it he flew. “Fa-- I am Is-” No, no, the other way around, her Heartsong said. “Kaede Iseya.” An unnatural contortion of her name, but she slipped her fingers from his wrist, laced them together with his - recalled in whispers that actions so familiar and comforting to her would not be so here, and instead did as she had been shown and gave their interlocked hands a quick up-down motion.

A beat of silence, pressing against them with the kiss of a butterfly’s wings, and then he withdrew his hand, shifted his weight in discomfort. “... Garrett.” A strange note, in his voice, as if it weren’t quite his own in that moment.

Kaede nodded, and offered him as sweet a smile as she could conjure for a stranger-not-quite. “Ítsata, Garrett.” She tried to say it with the same inflection, but the sounds rolled through her teeth regardless of her. “I…  _ fíanm-- _ I sorrow in- in your fear.” Cocking her head, as Garrett blinked and visibly tried to decode that. “I made you. Fear.” Gently, even as that tightened in his face and he reached further into himself and away from the world, one hand darting up to shroud his hair in the dulcet leather. “I sorrow.”

“You’re Pandyssian, aren’t you?” And her expression alighted, felt her smile from behind it and released into the sunless time a peal of laughter. Nodded, hearing what the moon-skinned called her homeland. It was a nice word, she’d decided after hearing it in her Heartsong’s voice.

“Pandyssian,” she repeated, just to feel it on her tongue.

A sudden flutter of feathers beside them, and the gull who had hosted Kaede so graciously rose on wintry wings, screeched as it spun a quick spiral around them, and then rose away. She called after it - “Garíta áé, zúlavíé!” - and watched it go, flattened a kiss against the back of her left hand and then offered it in the gull’s wake.

Beside her, Garrett went tense. There were words heavy in his eyes, a voice in his throat that went unspoken, such weights each and every one that Kaede saw him torpid with them. Tilted her head and beckoned, as if she could summon them out.

It worked, sometimes, with her Heartsong. To her thrill, it appeared that he was painted in similar colours to she whom once he had edified. “You’re Marked,” he gave the weight of the words to her, and seemed lighter for it. There was another not-quite note in his voice, as if he wasn’t certain, so she offered him her left hand to see for himself. He didn’t touch her, but she turned her wrist slightly so the moonlight caught it better - the Mark of her Night-Eyed liege was barely darker than her skin.

Several seconds of attempted formulation, tasting her Heartsong’s language before putting sound to it. “I am.” When that didn’t even garner a glance, she tried again. “I  _ Am. _ I am… Who  _ Is. _ You am Who Feels.”

He looked up then, as if she had threatened him; a flicker, in his hand, and there was more weight, of movement resisted and instinct put to rest. “... You mean the Primal.”

_ Primal. _ That was what her Heartsong called her also, the Primal. Passion and consecrated shadow bathed in light; She Who Feels. Kaede laughed, softly now - there was so much control in him, heavy and holding and locked like a forbidden garden. If there had been serendipity in his acquisition of the Astral Light, as had there been for her Heartsong, then it was either the greatest blessing he would ever receive and would  _ free _ him - or the deepest curse, and he would shackle himself to it until he drowned. Her Heartsong had faced no such agony; she had always sought the sky and the sea and their freedoms, as did her silver Divine.

She hoped that he followed the former path. Perhaps, if he could not, he would have been better served chosen as a familiar of the Void Divine.

“Astral Divine,” she offered her confirmation. Eyes that did not match, disarming in a way different from how her Heartsong’s enchanted her, but mirrored with the night stars just the same - they narrowed.

“Astral?”

He didn’t know? “Astral. As to Void.” The Primal’s home, where the perfect Feeling One dwelt, away from where her spirit would incinerate their world around itself.

A moan, from nearby, and even as Garrett pulled taut in every direction, Kaede turned to the slumbering dark one beside them. It was stronger here, like being out above the ocean on hollow wings and in her own stolen heartbeat sliding into the waters themselves, diving amidst flashing scales and shuddering whalesong. The bracing scent of the Void lingered on the one Garrett had attacked, but gave no singing vibration in the air. Did not bear the Night-Eyed’s touch, but was bound to one who did.

_ “Shit.” _ A word that she knew - something her Heartsong used as an expletive and an adulation in equal measures.

The dark one was waking, but Kaede wasn’t certain why Garrett had attacked to begin with. Gesturing towards the limp form: “Why?” And then, perhaps he required the dark one for something: “Yours?”

His brow knotted down as he moved, and Kaede extrapolated the scowl or frown hidden behind the swath of fabric that hid his face. “He’s been following me.” Getting closer, he hooked his arms under the dark one’s shoulders and lifted, ignoring the roll of loose neck and head; let out a low sound of exertion. “If I tell you-- Seriously?”

Indignance, but Kaede ignored it and took the dark one from his arms, carried instead in her own. It cost her far less effort than it was Garrett, and no matter what he intended, they could not leave the dark one on stone in the cold. Holding the dark one against her body with one arm, she pointed up at the Clocktower. “Yes?”

A fraction of a second, as he went too still - floating in the ocean still, death-rattle-still - and then his shoulders took on a sharp cut and he seemed to almost unfurl, a movement-that-wasn’t. Suddenly, he seemed not so small. “Of course she told you,” growled under his breath. “No. You can blink, so you can follow me.” He had already moved halfway across the stone meadow before she understood what he’d assumed, and then she called after him.

“Garrett. Blink -  _ vrinset _ \- No. I un-blink.” She had not found herself blessed with that manipulation, although never would she complain. Her gifts were numerous and she gloried in them all the same. She wanted for precious nothing.

He stared at her, released a sound like that of an angry vinewolf.  _ “Fine. _ Follow me. And once we get there, you’ll go get Erin.” It didn’t sound certain - he swayed as he spoke, not a physical movement but one of mind. A question he had not found the courage to ask; but despite all that her Heartsong had spoken of him, it would do her good to see him once more, a brother she had lost before she’d gained him.

By the way he wavered, motionless, while her answer formed in her throat, it may well do him good too. Perhaps there could be peace. Perhaps they would both be free. “Erin finds me,” she reassured him, walking up close with the dark one in her arms, stirring and waking. She gave the dark one a brief lift. “She wakes.”  _ No. _ Kaede let it go - her Heartsong’s tongue found too many pronouns, too many ways to do little more than dissect human from human. She knew the one that her Heartsong applied to herself, the one that  _ mattered, _ and she often forgot the rest.

Had Garrett applied the other to the dark one? Kaede wasn’t sure.

He gave her an odd look, but nodded. “Get moving, then.”

And he took off with the grace and speed of a fleet cat; Kaede followed, and found her heart soothed by the obvious resemblance to how he must have, once, taught her hallowed Erin to run.

* * *

_ The entity emerges quickly, more than usual. I have barely wandered, but I raise no protest - simply reach for it, as the fog of its arms encircle me and quiet the faces in the swirling mist infinity around us. _

_ Just one face, recently. _

_ I lift my chin, seeking a kiss, and I am denied. Shivering nothing echoes across my skin, sinking past nerves I am no longer certain are mine, but I surrender. The entity embraces me, the fog filling lungs that I do not need here and slowly consuming blood and thought. My own warmth fades to nothing, breathes out with the absolute stillness of the entity’s memory imprinted on my body. _

_ For an eternity, lifetimes that flash past in a consoling blur, there is nothing else, but I am content as one with this entity of fog and serene disquiet. _

_ The whispers brush through my hair, memories and imagined sounds coalescing into words without voice. Urgent and heavy, more than usual - I open my eyes to stare into the layers of black-white-grey, and the entity stares back, unblinking. It’s close, so close that it’s dizzying. I could kiss it, if I tried, if I leaned forward… _

~~_ So soon _ ~~

~~_ My kindred _ ~~

~~_ Soon, my kindred _ ~~

~~_ He will be in danger _ ~~

~~_ Soon _ ~~

~~_ So soon, he will be in danger _ ~~

~~_ Danger, my kindred _ ~~

~~_ So soon _ ~~

_ I do not kiss the entity. _

_ But I weave my fingers into its form, misty tendrils that might - if I stretched the definition - pass as hair. _

_ It dissolves in the next blink of my eyes, and then I wake. _

* * *

Nine days after Billie arrived in The City, the second rendezvous marker was turned over.

She approached cautiously, seeing that; didn’t knock, as she picked up both markers and then slipped through the door. It was dark, inside the small abandoned building. Dust and ash rose from each footstep, leftover from whatever industrial purpose it had fulfilled before The City collapsed.

A bitter taste rose in the back of Billie’s throat, as she clenched her hand around the little markers and gritted her teeth.  _ Dark _ in here, like Daud had kept his room often dark. She’d known how dangerous her contact was prior to agreeing to the meeting, of course, but it still made her itch under her clothes, the knowledge that she was blind where she once wasn’t.

And she hated Daud for  _ that _ almost as much as everything else, for giving her a taste of the Void. She hated herself more for throwing it away.

“You didn’t bring it with you?” came the voice. A harsher accent than Billie had expected, heavily Cityzen, with the edges rounded smooth by something altogether foreign. If she had to guess, Billie would have said it was the Pandyssian influence; how long had they even spent there? Another note, almost flirtatious, underlying each word.

Billie scowled, wishing that she’d chosen daylight over night. Sure, it made sneaking around more difficult - but that had been before she’d seen the state of The City, and at least then she’d have a rat’s chance in Void to get a good look at the woman. “Of course I didn’t. It’s safe. And it’s not what we’re here for anyway.”

She laughed, a sound that was sweet and sticky like molasses, and carried the same bitter poisonous aftertaste. “No, it’s not. So tell me why I should help you again? After all, it seems like I’m the one doing all the work here.”

“You need reliable transport for whatever it is you’re after, right? Help me find Daud, and my ship is at your service,” Billie sighed. It wasn’t as if she had much else to bargain with, at this point - and she was out of ideas for finding her old Master. The whole damn network she’d worked end to end had come up utterly empty - and she was  _ stupid _ to have expected anything else.

If Daud wanted to disappear, he’d be almost impossible to find again.

Which was why, after all, she was here; making a deal with another assassin.

There was a flicker of light, in the dark, as she stepped closer to Billie. Twin circles, pale ice blue, and Billie could hear the grin in her voice dancing across the space between them as it narrowed - she blinked, the lights in her eyes flashing out for half a second. “Well, I suppose you’ve got yourself a deal. What do I need to know about Daud?”

The cold that ran down Billie’s spine was something she hadn’t felt in a long time, but it was familiar all the same. She stepped back from the assassin, and shivered as she was laughed at in response. “... What are you?” Billie asked instead - never to shy from a hard question. If she didn’t ask, she’d never get answers, even the ones she had to fight for. And Billie had  _ not _ signed up for dealing with another Marked, or whatever the hell this assassin might turn out to be. She wasn’t normal - that much was obvious - but Daud’s eyes had never glowed like whale oil lamps, and neither had Delilah’s. Billie hadn’t seen a whole lot of Attano, but she was sure she’d never seen his eyes light up like that either. Considering the limited number of people who bought the Outsider’s interest enough to earn a Mark, and how varied their magics had been even across the three Billie had met, it was safe to assume that this was probably not a Void thing.

And that might actually be  _ worse. _ At least Billie knew pretty much where she stood with the Void.

In her voice, the grin sounded iniquitous. “Nyaw- You don’t need to worry about that.” Almost admonishing, and equally as teasing. “I can find your Marked Master, isn’t that what matters?”  _ Mocking, _ this time and Billie clenched her hand at her side. Started to regret not bringing her blade.

“How the  _ fuck _ do you know that?” she asked instead, fighting to keep her voice steady -  _ Void, _ no, fuck steady, she needed to sound  _ threatening-- _ Even if she wasn’t much of a threat, not without her blade, not missing an arm and out of combat practice for long, long years, not when this assassin had eyes that glowed with the threat of magic Billie didn’t even understand.  _ I’m so fucking stupid, _ she cursed herself, stepping back and coiling all the same, her hand coming up before her chest, ready to fight.  _ Check your fucking sources. You deserve to die here, Lurk. _

An amatuer move, trusting a rendezvous like this when she’d never even met the damn woman.  _ Desperation, _ that she’d ever agreed to it in the first place, fury at her own inadequacy - as if she could have ever found Daud against his will.

She hadn’t. Not the first time, and certainly not now.

Laughter pierced the air, a cutting sensual thing, and Billie flinched as a match was struck. A moment later, she watched the little flame as it danced by the assassin’s face, met wick, ignited against a candle. Burning low, the light just barely enough to make out her form, the candle was shoved into Billie’s unresisting hand. “That’s not really your concern, is it?” Mocking and chiding all in one. In the candlelight, Billie could see the glint of her teeth.

She was narrow, the witch-assassin. Shorter than Billie by at least a head, her body compact and small, each movement so clean and self-assured that Billie knew she was well-trained, had the knowledge of exactly how to weaponise herself. Shrouded in fabric that was soft and dark-- well, dark at least, and hugged every curve and line of her as she shifted in the dim light. Billie couldn’t pick out enough detail to know exactly what weapons she was carrying, but she saw their bulk around the woman’s silhouette, breaking up the delicate shape with the instruments of trade.

Loose hair, framing her face; Billie couldn’t pick out colour or shape, but she saw the shadow of it against her skin, flickering faintly as the candle burned. And ever-present, her eyes; whale oil, blazing and bright, barely bringing out the sharp cut of her nose.

“So, we have a deal, don’t we?” She offered her hand, just barely distinct in the candlelight.

Heart thundering, feeling like she’d been somehow outplayed even though she was - technically - getting what she wanted for little to no material cost, Billie waved the candle in her fingers and didn’t shake on it. “... Are you gonna let me  _ live _ if I say no?” It was a risk, for sure; and one Billie wasn’t even sure she should bother taking. Even if the witch-assassin said yes, did that mean Billie should back out? She didn’t like feeling made. And at the same time, there was something so unsettling about this woman that the regret boiled in her throat like bile, anger that she’d actually just waltzed her own damn self into this situation. It wasn’t  _ safe _ to deal with her.

_ Safe. What by Void have I ever done that’s  _ **_safe?_ ** Granted, she’d had two good arms and decent depth perception when she’d stalked Daud to his hideout and - somehow, and was it a miracle or a curse, in the end? - convinced him to train her, but it still been a patently stupid act. This… felt the same, except Billie had neither the hands nor the heart left to lose if this blew up in her face.

Fear was a useful impulse. It scratched under her skin, itself cowed by the unflinching Wall of Light stare the witch-assassin had trapped her in. Billie knew better than to let fear rule her, but it was always the first signal that a situation was going to shit and should be the fuck avoided.

She stepped closer. “So afraid,” she murmured, and the glow in her eyes brightened, showed the curve of her cheekbones and the locks of hair that fluttered down her temples. Smoke burned off from her gaze, as it did from Daud’s Mark when he overexerted himself, but yet this was almost light in its own right, rather than the choking black of a stressed Void. “Good. You  _ should _ be afraid.”

“You got a deal.” Blurted out, sheer contrary defiance, and Billie kicked herself silently. It was a trait that Daud had never quite managed to beat out of her, no matter how many practice spars she lost to him or how many times he burned out her magic to her very limits. She didn’t have the luxury of either, anymore - and it surged up full force.  _ Fuck you. I’ll be scared if and when you become scary. _

And it was a lie,  _ Outsider’s ass _ it was a lie, but Billie jerked her chin up and held it anyway. The witch-assassin laughed, wickedly cutting. “Good shit. So, if you’re to be my boatwoman, what should I call you?”

Not actually asking her name, Billie noted, not that she would have given it if she had. Instead, Billie lifted the candle slightly and scowled in vexation as the witch-assassin stepped further back, out of the direct light. “Foster,” she said. “Meagan Foster.”

Billie could still see the glinting grin. “Iseya. You don’t get the rest. I’ll get back to you when I find something out.” Opening her mouth to protest - what happened to the scant things Billie  _ did _ know about where Daud might have gone? - and then the firelight seemed to twist in on itself, a nauseating unreality that curved and bent  _ so wrongly, _ and it reminded her of what few descriptions of the Void that Daud had ever offered aloud, and more of the many innumerable ones he’d written down.

When she blinked, the witch-assassin--  _ Iseya-- _ was gone.

“Fucking superb, Foster,” she muttered to herself (could never be certain she wasn’t being observed, so over the last eight years she’d  _ lived _ that name), lifting the candle and searching the rest of the building. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it now. “Right hand of the most feared assassin to ever live, and still fucking  _ stupid.” _ Okay, so maybe she was fucked if Iseya was still listening. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t tipping her hand anyway, just wanting to find Daud in the first place.

Most everyone had been happy to forget him. Not the Whalers, of course, but one by one - after he’d slipped away into the night - the Void had forsaken them and they’d broken apart like the abandoned wreckage that they were. Billie hadn’t meant to still be there when that happened, had meant to be as far away as possible in case Daud’s mercy finally wavered and it was  _ her _ blood that broke the man’s fast - but… she’d stayed. Watched long enough to understand that Daud wasn’t coming back from the Brigmore Manor, even as she’d felt the dim connection in her chest to Delilah wink out and prove his success. Watched the Whalers fall apart and surge together again and shatter.

And too late now, regardless. It had been eight years - nine, nearly - and she’d wallowed enough. When it came right down to it, when Billie confronted the absolute naked truth that she wouldn’t have admitted under torture - she was  _ lonely. _ Daud had been her family, however bloody and fucked up. He’d taken her in when by right he should have killed her, saved her from the fate of a mudlark on the run (death or whoring, and that second one perhaps had not even been open to her), had trained her to be strong and deadly.

As ugly and twisted as their truths were, Billie hated and missed him in equal measure. She’d been banished, and he had warned that should he set eyes on her face again, she would lose it - but after all this time… Surely she couldn’t be the only one who regretted actions taken and words spoken, who… simply  _ regretted. _

If he carried through after all, if she dared to find him and he loosed her head from her shoulders for it, then so be it. At least then she’d know - and then she wouldn’t, and it would be over.

And maybe… if the Outsider were kind… she would see Deirdre.

There was nothing else to be found here. Iseya was gone, and had left only darkness and dread in her wake. And again, as Billie made her way back to the door and made to blow out the candle, she was proven wrong. A tiny squeak, the flutter and scrape of claws across her boots, and Billie kicked reflexively. Even after all these years,  _ rats _ still never failed to make her skin crawl.

A louder squeak, somehow… indignant. Billie went still as the rat came trotting right back and smacked a paw against her boot.  _ What the fuck…? _

Leaning down, Billie pushed aside the shuddery discomfort of being anywhere  _ near _ a rat, even one small and perfectly white and obviously not plague-bearing. It watched her, eyes gleaming, and squeaked again; rested on his hind legs and reached with one front paw. Its ears wiggled back and forth, and after a few moments of disgruntled observation, Billie saw that its eyes were almost… vibrating. Tiny fractions of motion of enlargement and down, and again, while its ears rotated and the faintest grinding of teeth came from behind closed jaws.

She almost recoiled, but it scraped the air with a paw again, the motion startlingly - and impossibly - human and chittered softly.  _ Is it… possessed? _ Daud had never shown a propensity for possession, but she knew that others who bore the Mark could warp their bodies into invasive mist and control another. Why would anyone possess a rat? But there was no mistake that the creature - and there were no other rats here, now that Billie listened for them; there were barely any other animals around Cinderfell at all - was no normal rodent.

Candlelight spilled out over the rat as Billie lowered the flame; it chittered again, cocked its head. This time, the motion of its paws looked like…  _ beckoning. _

She saw it, as she leaned in a little closer, ever wary of being bitten - it wriggled through the creature’s eyes, a reflection that Billie might have missed in the bright pink if not for the flame. A deep shadow, almost silvery as the light refracted off it, quivering across the surface it the rat’s eyes like a shell that almost, not quite, existed.

_ Summons. _

Maybe it wasn’t Iseya, the eerily whale-oil-eyed witch-assassin, but there  _ was _ a Marked one here. In The City. Billie almost dropped the candle, staring at the rat; fear evaporated, and a very different kind of trepidation took its place. Who was it? Who was here and Marked? Was it someone she knew? There weren’t  _ that _ many running around - the Outsider didn’t Mark just anybody. Teeth gritted, at the thought, a lifelong old bitterness.  _ I’m not just anybody. _ But the god hadn’t even bothered to speak with her, so Marking was still a distant dream.

Shoved that down. Looked on the rat again, lowering her hand so the candle wasn’t shining directly on it - offered her wrist. The summons scampered up her arm without hesitation, little claws sharp and painless to her shoulder. It settled, nosed warm, tickly whiskers against her neck for a moment, and squeaked.

Who was it? That hung over her, even as she kicked open the door and blew out the candle, stepped out into the night. With the tapping of paws and the scamper from shoulder to shoulder and back again, the summons guided her through The City.  _ Towards its master. _ But who? Daud couldn’t possess a rat - but he sure as  _ Void _ could summon one. Such a talent for summons Billie hadn’t seen from either Attano or Delilah as she’d seen from Daud. The Knife had been capable of summoning humanoid structures from the Void mist that rose at his command, fully functional complex creatures that - for all intents and purposes - were practically Whalers in their own right. Near the end, he’d even figured out how to imbue them with transversals.

So it could be Daud, summoning Void rats to call her.  _ No. Don’t be so foolishly hopeful, Lurk. _

It couldn’t be Daud. Why would he seek her out now, of all times? He couldn’t know she had the blade. She doubted he even knew what the blade was. And he wouldn’t be here, in The City. Even if he’d disgraced himself to such a squalid, degenerate banishment in the first place, he never would have stayed. Not when it was so far down the shitter, not with the Empire knocking on the door. An invasion meant the royal army - it meant Dunwall officials - it probably meant the Grand Admiral of the Fleet, given The City was only accessible by ship.

An invasion meant Messengers, and if Daud hadn’t kept afoot of the Dunwall developments and the progress of the Crown, then he  _ deserved _ to get caught. A quiet new life or not, he was still the Knife of Dunwall, he had still slain the previous Empress, and Billie had no doubt that Empress Kaldwin and Attano would have liked nothing more than to see him executed.

Probably after a nice sentence of torture first. Whatever. Billie didn’t know what their tastes were like.

Although she knew that Attano had spared Daud’s life. That in itself was…

_ Nope. _ She still didn’t know what to think of that. Mostly, she tried not to. It was too fucked up, to feel grateful and furious to the Royal Protector whom she’d held in the air with a tether of Void magic, whom she’d forced to watch Jessamine Kaldwin die on Daud’s blade.

A pause, while the summoned rat chittered and stuck its nose in her ear. Maybe… Maybe she understood Daud’s guilt. Just a little. After all this time, maybe she shared it. She was just as implicit in that particular kill - but unlike Daud, she’d scrubbed off the Empress’ blood and happily gloved herself with someone else’s.

Maybe that was the true difference between them.

The rat squeaked and scratched down her neck; not hard enough to break her skin, but enough that she hissed and turned a glare on it. Whoever had summoned it didn’t have to be such a bitch about it. She was  _ coming, _ she didn’t need to be hurried along like some recalcitrant child.

But, of course, all the same, she set off again and let the summons guide her towards its master, towards the Marked one in The City. Again, again, even after everything - chasing the Void.

* * *

Garrett was getting  _ really _ sick of magic.

Or at least, he was sick of dealing with the people who wielded it. Why were there so damn many of them? And why -  _ by gods _ \- did they have to keep showing up on his fucking doorstep?

“Áé lltera shassa,” came the softly amused voice. It was a melodic thing, rushing through sweetly rolling sounds like water over smooth stones - and Garrett  _ hated _ it. He couldn’t quite pick apart the real reason why. Part of it was the sheer frustration of not understanding a damn thing she said, certainly; he had no idea what she was playing at, when she clearly had at least rudimentary grasp on how to speak  _ his _ language, and had shown proficiency in understanding what he said to her, and Kaede’s constant shift back to her own tongue felt like mockery.

Maybe it was just she was currently sitting on the windowsill of his safehouse, as serene and calm as if it  _ wasn’t _ an unmitigated fucking disaster that he had ended up with not only a Pandyssian he didn’t know  _ in the slightest _ in his safehouse, but also a  _ fucking Empire captive, _ and a gods-forsaken Messenger at that.  _ Maybe, _ just maybe, it was the fact that the Messenger he’d taken -  _ Why? Why in the hells did I take one of them? _ \- had two friends who had, presumably, watched him do it and would without a doubt be coming for their friend.

Or maybe it was just that this nightmare was happening on fucking  _ Winter 42 _ _ nd _ _ , _ of all possible days. At least the pattern was consistent: when Garrett’s life decided to fall apart, it went all or fucking nothing.

Tonight, apparently, it was  _ all. _

The Messenger in question was  _ not _ sitting casually on his windowsill like a guest for tea. Garrett had tied him up on the floor, left wrist to right ankle, right wrist to left ankle, and then each set tied together, all behind his back. He’d woken up some half an hour ago, thrashed once, let out a hiss of pain, and gone still.

Leaning uncomfortably in the corner of the room, kept upright by the walls, he had been utterly silent since; watched Garrett’s every move with narrowed eyes that almost seemed, in the lamplight, to glitter like silver pieces such a pure grey were they. Fire red hair, a vanishingly rare trait in The City, matched with a cluster of freckles under each eye and skin so shockingly pale white even Garrett was taken aback - he definitely wasn’t a Cityzen.

In a pile on the table, Garrett had put his things. Two vials of MANA dug out from the depths of his pockets (and  _ that _ was less than great news, that they were carrying MANA on them), a short knife clipped to his thigh that seemed to be more a backup weapon than a primary, a whole  _ belt _ of small round devices that had been buckled from shoulder to waist, the little metal balls warm to the touch and each with an almost imperceptible groove around their circumference - Garrett had decided very quickly that fucking with them was quite firmly on his  _ Not-To-Do list. _ Alongside them was the short length of fabric that knotted at his throat and served as hood and waist-long cloak in one, the Messenger’s gloves (supple, expensive leather, cut off at the wrist and fingers, and inlaid along the knuckles with heavy, razor sharp studs), his boots (sturdy things, good quality, unusual in design only by the thin retractable blades hidden along the outer edges of the soles), and the miniature rucksack that had sat in the small of his back, carrying emergency rations and survival supplies.

His gaze flickered to it occasionally, but thus far he’d done nothing. At the least, Garrett had expected to have to deal with whatever magic he carried from Corvo by now.

Equally as often as it went to the pile of his things, the Messenger’s eyes flitted to Kaede, settled happily with her long legs crossed and smiling whimsically as she observed, and then would drop to the floor. When first, the Messenger had woken, Kaede had knelt by him, put two fingers to his temple, and Garrett had watched light sparkle from her Mark like ephemeral fireflies. The silver eyes had gone wide, and the Messenger had stayed silent, and  _ literally nothing else _ had happened since.

And maybe that was his fault. He had taken the Messenger captive, after all.  _ Gods, what is wrong with me? _

At least that was an aggravated thought, and not the despair it had been in summer.

But what was he supposed to  _ do _ with him? The Messenger refused even to look at Garrett. Was he  _ that _ scared of him? Or was it something else? Maybe it was the exact opposite - and Garrett had to admit, even in his full gear, he didn’t cut a particularly intimidating figure next to Kaede.

The woman - apparently… Erin’s woman, and  _ that _ was a thought that sunk heavy in his gut, like a particularly uncomfortable parasite - was tall, much taller than Garrett or Erin or anyone in The City. He’d known that Imperials tended to be taller than Cityzens, but apparently Pandyssians were part something else entirely, because at her full height, Kaede could have touched the ceiling with her hands and still had flex left in her arms. She wore some kind of woven fabric around her body, tight against her form and a warm orange-red in colour; it hooked around her feet and ankles, curled back into a full leg behind her knee, and then encased her entirely up to her collar, where it extended down to the elbow and split apart again, a tapering length over the back of her forearms held in place with a little loop around her middle fingers. Her feet were bare aside from that, and her nails - on both foot and hand - while relatively short, were curved to wicked points like talons. A harness-like belt sat at her waist, to which was attached a couple of lengths of rope that terminated in weights, several closed pouches that contained gods knew what, and a four-inch long knife that looked like it was carved from  _ bone. _ A short length of fangs was strung around her throat.

And she wasn’t thin or wiry like Garrett was, no; she was an agile-looking woman, but there was obvious muscle built into every part of her body, a blatant show of strength that remained dormant only so long as her good graces were intact. Garrett had felt it, holding him down in an effortless four-point pin that he hadn’t even had a  _ prayer _ of escaping. If he’d been able to use magic, sure, maybe - but he’d called the Primal up and it had sparked and screamed against her touch and recoiled.

Because  _ oh yeah, _ almost invisible against her ink-black skin - even darker than Leon’s odd sable -  was the Outsider’s Mark, etched on the back of her left hand. And it got even weirder than that, because at least the Mark made some kind of bullshit sense, at least Garrett had seen it before. From where Kaede sat, she pleasantly watched the clusterfuck this night had become with piercing yellow eyes, and her fingers played in the pale white strands of her own hair. It was knotted all the way down on the right side, tightly woven braids adorned with tiny, flashing feathers.

She was utterly alien, and if not for Erin -  _ and oh gods, Erin was here, in The City,  _ **_She’s here right now_ ** \- Garrett would have lost her on the Highway and never fucking looked back. He didn’t need this shit.

But here he was, one eerie Pandyssian and one errant Messenger later, standing mutely in his own damn safehouse while he tried to figure out exactly  _ what in the fuck _ he was even supposed to say.

Did he start with why the hells the Messenger and his tiny entourage was following him? Was it important that he ask after the Empire, if they were here and about to crash down on The City, or should he ignore that entirely? It wasn’t as if  _ knowing _ would change a damn thing, because they were coming and The City would fall like wet paper - but maybe knowing more about it would afford Garrett a better chance to survive it.

And  _ why the hells _ were they following him? It had better not be at Corvo’s behest, because this was literally the  _ exact opposite _ of leaving him intact and alive during the invasion. Not that he knew what they actually wanted with him, because he hadn’t asked and couldn’t figure out how - and who knew how long they’d watched him sulk on top of the Clocktower before he’d see--

_ I was  _ **_not_ ** _ sulking, _ he thought sternly.  _ Gods, just ask him something already. _

That  _ was _ how this was supposed to work, right? It wasn’t any easier to organise this thoughts with Kaede slipping in amused comments in her own language - with her constant Void presence, setting the Primal to bubbling unhappily in his eyes and chest even once it had returned. Constant distractions from a situation that needed his full attention and by rights shouldn’t have even fucking happened in the first place.

_ I wish Basso was here. _

It struck him, that thought, out of nowhere. Crept down his spine like an ice cube, jaw clenching as he found he couldn’t even deny it. At least Basso would know what do - or at least be brazenly outspoken enough to fake it. As it stood, Garrett wasn’t sure that they still wouldn’t be here when the sun rose.

As long as Kaede was right, and not somehow tricking him. He dreaded to think what Erin might do to a  _ captive, _ especially an Imperial captive, but… but she still needed to get here. As soon as possible, preferably.

Fuck the Messenger at that point. She just needed to get here. Garrett hadn’t seen her in over a year, hadn’t heard a damn thing about where she’d gone  _ (Pandyssia, apparently), _ if she was okay. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been falling from the edge of Dawn’s Light, screaming for him to just  _ throw the damn Claw _ and he’d hardly even been able to  _ think _ through the rushing burning Primal everywhere and the suffocating grip of déjá vu, and he’d thrown it anyway and tried to unlock the fucking  _ book _ and put the Primal back where it-- she belonged  _ (Hahahahahahahahaha) _ and then he’d felt the sharp yank on his harness, the desperate blazing relief that had expanded in his chest even as the pressure had constricted from harness to ribcage and everything had flickered, pain and Primal and pressure and panic, and--

“Garrett.” A peculiar rolling distortion of his name, almost  _ purred, _ and then a touch at his shoulder. Panic surged up in his chest, and a low hiss clawed out of his throat as he jerked away, coiling ready for a fight, hand dropping to his blackjack and unhooking it in the same motion - ease of practice, a thousand times repeated, because if he was caught off guard then he needed to be able to defend himself--

Kaede stepped away sharply, lifting her hands placatingly, fingers curled slightly. She was crouched, a little bit, trying not loom over him - yellow eyes tight, tiny little motions that Garrett couldn’t decipher. “Fa fíanme, fa fíanme. I sorrow. Sorrow.” As soft as possible, still backing away until she was right at the far wall. “Insá, Garrett, insá.”

Whatever the fuck  _ that _ meant.

Then, sitting down again - sliding down the wall until she was settled on the floor - Kaede pointed at the Messenger. “You- quest?” A pause; a frown. “Question.” Lower this time, eyeing Garrett oddly.

He glanced at the Messenger, trying desperately to get his raging heart under control.  _ Breathe in, hold, breathe out. _ Three seconds each. Longer was asking for trouble, as off-kilter as he felt, as wild as his thoughts were running.  _ Gods, _ he couldn’t even get through a coherent thought without going off the rails.

Garrett really, really needed to get away from all this. Just… five minutes to calm down again, process this catastrophe.

“I don’t have anything for him,” he snapped back instead. “You ask him.”

_ “Her.” _

A quiet voice, torn with a conflicting tension that Garrett didn’t understand and frankly could not be fucked trying to. He looked towards the Messenger, dumbfounded; this,  _ this _ after all, was what the Messenger broke silence for. And he-- she--  _ whatever-- _ looked away, tensing up and trembling.

“What?”

“Her. I’m-- I’m not-- I’m a her.”

For a long minute, Garrett just stared at-- her, blinking. She  _ looked _ like a him - not that it fucking mattered. She was still a Messenger, still following him around, still a threat tied up in his  _ damn safehouse _ \- and  _ oh, _ never before had the term been so completely inaccurate. “I don’t care,” he told her instead. “This her got a name?” At least if he got her name, that was a start. Right?

Her jaw clenched and she fixed her gaze on the floor, and steadfastly refused to respond. A minute passed. Two.

“Seriously? You really wanna do this?” Not that he had  _ any _ idea what ‘this’ even entailed. What was he supposed to do if she just refused to speak? Torture her? The thought sent a shudder through him, nausea bursting open in his gut like blood from a blown vein.  _ No. _ Garrett wasn’t a torturer - it shuddered through him again, even  _ thinking _ it, even in denial. Basso flashed through his mind, Leon, the darkness and sickening stench that had clung to everything in the Thief-Taker’s dungeon so strongly it held felt like a physical thing, sticking to his skin--

_ Okay, okay, stop. Take a breath, Garrett. _

He did, slowly, tried to ease out the nausea and disquiet and the low pissed off simmer of the Primal behind his eyes, like a fever in his skull. Tried to breathe out his own lingering anger with it - all too painfully aware that whatever anger truly was his, the Primal latched onto it and compounded and just  _ kept going _ until he couldn’t control it. He knew it, couldn’t risk ignoring it without risking it happening again.

Didn’t dare close his eyes, kept visual track of the strangers in his safehouse, but he took a few more breaths, made his shoulders relax, loosened his muscles.  _ Rigid breaks. Flexible lives. _ The single best piece of combat advice Master Amber had ever given him.

“What’s your name?” he asked the Messenger again, and was met with--

Not silence, as it turned out. “Name? Nn lasp ké Jay.” Gestured, almost eagerly, Kaede looking up with a smile at him. “Fa svólvex áll Jaysa likít.” And Garrett didn’t understand a damn thing about that… but a couple of the words sounded familiar. Had she used them before? When… she’d introduced herself maybe? “Name,” Kaede added helpfully, gesturing to the Messenger again.

Jay.

And just how in the fuck did she know that? Garrett supposed that the second bit had to be an explanation, and once again the bitter Primal anger pulsed out under his skin, flickers of blue and grey and purple in his vision as the focus flared for a moment.  _ Gods damn it. _ He couldn’t even control the focus. Why the Primal had to be clawed so fucking deep into his emotions was beyond him,  _ why _ it reacted to his traitorous feelings instead of what he  _ wanted-- _

It was probably a joke. The Primal probably thought it was-- He wasn’t sure--  _ funny. _

“Jay? Is that it?” he growled at the Messenger all the same, and she glanced up at him, met his eyes, and shrank back against the walls as flat and tiny as she could. Which  _ wasn’t an answer. _

Letting out a frustrated sound, Garrett ran a hand back through his hair, barely even caring that it knocked his hood down. What the hell was he supposed to--

“Ítaa, fán Lantasaría-kana.”

The voice washed over him like white noise, and all at once everything else went dead. The Primal surged, a frantic swarming heat in every inch of him, but it lacked the violence of even a moment before - almost a sweet caress, almost  _ excited, _ and Garrett barely felt it, didn’t give a single flying fuck about what the Primal was doing in his eyes or under his skin. Thought stopped, fraying into little more than fuzzy static greys inside his own head, and there was a coldness that melted down from outside himself, muting the Primal even as the Primal muted it.

Was he breathing? He wasn’t even sure. He could feel his heart, a deep heavy  _ throb _ against the inside of his chest - was that too fast, or too slow? Unable to tell, like time wasn’t working right; a distant sound reached him, just barely, a shrill echo, and then his senses finally turned back on and only in that moment did Garrett even realise that they’d turned  _ off _ in the first place.

“...n Lantasaría-kana, fa lanta áé! Ato áé lissa, ato áé marol?” Garrett finally managed to register the sight of them, even as Kaede pressed a delicate kiss to her cheek and she offered back a smile so easy and pure that Garrett had never  _ seen _ on her face - or… anyone’s. He’d never seen a look like that.

Hands clasped, their interactions quick and familiar and flashing by in seconds. “Nera, fán lanta, nera. Rí únlissazí, rrvas rín epina. Fa lanta áé.”

And then they released, and pale ice-light eyes turned on him, their matching glow like smoke and fire at the same time, and the wicked half-grin that slotted into place on her face was like a kick in the nuts for how it struck Garrett, for how it knocked him loose inside his own body.

“Heya, Garrett. This is a hell of a party.”

_ Erin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you ALL to know how _**close**_ I wasn’t to sparing you ‘seagles’ and I _regret_ my decision let me tell you.
> 
> Okay damn. I didn’t quite know what to expect when I first decided to write that scene from Kaede’s perspective and _damn_ am I glad that I did. Gods, she’s so fascinating. Thought processes! Knowledge! Language! Quirks!
> 
>  
> 
> _these characters. never. cooperate. why must they always do things their way instead of how I planned_
> 
>  
> 
> You guys this isn’t even related but Emily and Erin both have just a complete deficit of available fucks, my guys.
> 
> I don’t know if you can tell that I’m not bilingual. It’s probably pretty obvious if you are. (But just for everyone’s peace of mind, no I am not using Google Translate to create Kaede’s speech haha, that software is more shithoused than Basso on a bad day - she’s speaking Arcana, which a thousand percent belongs to me. So, you know, I can give you complete assurance that she’s speaking it correctly).
> 
> BillieBillieBillie please stop being so _difficult._
> 
> Hahahahahahahahahah I like rats.
> 
> Oh gods. Poor Garrett. Be strong sweetie.  
> Also yes. Yes, Jay is trans-female. I love her.
> 
> Regarding Kaede’s height: yes she’s tall (PANDYSSIANS *squee*) but also I headcanon that Cityzens are just kind of… all generally really short? Like, the whole damn lot of them are just a bunch of shorties. So corresponding to their own ‘norm’, their standard ceilings are probably a bit lower than (ours) the Empire’s.  
> Yes yes, she’s so very fucking anime (sue me) - but hey, to be fair, she’s Pandyssian. Those aspects of her appearance that Garrett finds so unsettlingly alien are quite common where she comes from. (so I made ALL the Pandyssians anime af sue me)
> 
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ERIN YES GURL


	6. What Wounds We Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In dedication to my friend Emma, who was the real life Sweet Cinnamon Roll, too pure for this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. Bear with me. Your support is appreciated.

She hadn't expected it to be easy - gods, she never expected it to be easy - but it still stole her breath away, heart rate spiralling up into oblivion, as she took in the sight of him. In this place. Familiar smells - warm leather and the faintest trace of beeswax and tallow, a heady whiff of kohl. His cloak had been replaced at some point between now and when they’d seen each other in the Astral, something deep blue and heavy; much heavier than the one she knew. It made sense, she supposed. It was winter now, and he was stronger than he’d been before.

She hadn’t expected it to be easy, but she was grateful for Kaede’s constant, warm presence all the same. Fingers, ever so gently on her elbow, the electric tingle of the Void where it washed up against the Astral, even as they held their magics apart. Hot breath on her hair. It helped, let her feel through the ringing sound in her ears, and the swell of pressure in her chest that felt like air escaping her lungs where it shouldn’t, tight and painful.

She hadn’t expected it to be easy, but why did it have to be so  _ hard? _

“Erin,” he said, his voice low - lower than she remembered, or was her hearing just jacked up? - and he took a step closer. Stopped. His fingers had curled in the edges of his cloak, flexing and tugging on the fabric. Was he still unaware he did that when he was freaking out? She didn’t know, wasn’t sure how he had changed in the last year and a half. Gods knew that Erin had changed.

Felt the words bubble up before she could stop them, “That’s still my name, Garrett, you can chill,” and didn’t take them back. An edge in her own voice, a warning that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to give but couldn’t risk withholding. “So. Who’s your party guest?” she asked, as much to distract him as for curiosity, pointing at the creature all knotted up in Garrett’s corner.

And that was a strange feeling, realising that Garrett had - apparently - taken a  _ prisoner, _ one that wound slick tendrils around her ribcage and  _ squeezed. _ At least it explained why they were in the safehouse and the Clocktower was vastly empty.

Garrett glanced towards the captive, tension and indecision rippling across his face.  _ Ah. _ So he didn’t actually know what he was doing with the poor soul. What had possessed him to take a prisoner when he didn’t even have a plan or a goal? So much for all his precious rules.

“Oh, is this a surprise party?” Might as well kill the metaphor while she was at it. “Well, my bad. I should have brought a present.” Took a single stride towards the captive, ignored Kaede’s soft reproach at her back  _ (“Din rín, Ashíaril.”) _ and ran fingers over the familiar worn hilt of her dagger.

In a second, Garrett was in her way; standing sideways, so she and the captive both were still in his line of sight, but blocking her even so. “Erin.” Reproachful; as if she were still his apprentice about to do something stupid, as if - after all - they were just the same idiots playing the same damn story on a slightly different stage. It brought her up short, a momentary seizure of her muscles as if she’d been doused in ice. Her hands clenched at her sides, and the stab of anger was only a little thing (what else should she expect of him? He never changed), but the heat of Astral energy flooded up behind her eyes in response. As ever, the magic in her reacted on a hairtrigger, any tiny fracture of emotion enough to overflow it and send the spill through her whole body. She  _ shuddered _ with it, even after so long harbouring the power, even after over half a year relearning how to make it her own.

Gentle hands touched her, one at her elbow and another at her waist, and Erin clung to the touch, fought down the urge to draw her dagger, spin light at her fingertips. “Ké áll insá, Ashíaril,” Kaede murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Té vír plóna.” Sparks of Void brushed against her, a bitter electric feeling, and that too Erin clung to. Breathed in the metallic cold scent that wove through the warm sunscorched way Kaede smelt; felt it recoil against the Astral and offer borrowed control, press it down into her skin again.

Equally as tense, Garrett was watching them interact, gaze flickering between Erin and Kaede. Astral smoked from him in response. A silky thin curiosity unwound in her chest at the sight, a fragile bubble around the simmering anger. Only one eye instead of both, but the iceflower crystal of his iris was the same - if a single shade darker - and light burned under the coiling vapour the magic gave off.

For a long minute, they just stared at each other, Astral held just under their skins as if they meant to fight. “Come on, Garrett,” Erin heard herself break the stalemate, swallowed the magic and forced a bitter grin across her teeth. “You really think I’m going to kill your pet prisoner?”

He probably did. Never could see past someone’s worst, no matter how often they showed their best. Erin couldn’t admit to caring about his captive’s life without lying, but whatever she might think, they were  _ his _ captive. She wasn’t about to piss him off for no reason.

No desire to truly fight him, not anymore. Sure, she was quite confident she could win a light scuffle, if it was short and close and didn’t involve their weapons. Even an armed one at length, she stood a  _ decent _ chance of winning; she doubted he’d gotten the hang of brawling in the last seven seasons. But the light still curled off his eye, the heat still boiled in her skull, and she knew that even if they didn’t destroy each other, the Astral they’d release in a magic scrap would vapourise half the room.

A moment spent staring, brow knotted under black hair that-- Really, it was just too  _ long. _ As guilty as she might be of growing her hair out too, at least she wasn’t still actively working with a mane like that. Days long past, Garrett had kept his hair clipped close to his scalp, the same as her. It certainly made it easier to manage under a leather hood for the majority of the time.

“By Light,” Erin spat quietly, stepping back into Kaede; pressed against her, even as she moved with it. “You really do. Outsider’s cunt, Garrett.” Anger again, an edge of disbelief as the Astral puddled in her gut and roiled there, like a storm. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m not here for you, anyway.”

It burst from her before she could even consider what she was saying. Biting and vicious, bleeding Astral rage even as she felt the heaviness of it in her eyes, knew the glow Garrett would be seeing. And strictly speaking, it was true; Erin hadn’t come back to The City to see Garrett. She hadn’t returned just so he could judge and berate her, and she wasn’t interested in staying here, under the terse stare, just so he could think her  _ not good enough _ \- like he always, always did. Nothing she’d ever done had been good enough. Not even in what she surpassed him.

“Erin--” one hand lifted slightly, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it - he probably wasn’t - and it was borderline  _ plaintive, _ the call of her name as she spun on her heel and stalked past her Heartsong. Was he so  _ fucking incapable _ of saying anything to her but her own damn name?

And she  _ hated _ it, loathed the way it caught inside her chest like a knife on jagged grovesilk, snagged and frayed and tore the Astral right apart. She hated that some part of her  _ still _ wanted to fix it, to put on the chains of his judgement until she’d deformed into something he could  _ stand the sight of _ \- hated how no matter what she did, or where she went, or how badly he betrayed her, she could never quite shake the desire to make him care. About her, or at least about the lie he wanted her to be. Sometimes, she’d worn that disguise so close to her skin that she’d forgotten there was anything under it.

But it had been a long time since then.

His voice was low, as she threw open the window - it slipped into the air like loosed magic. Broke. “I’m sorry.” A weak, shattered thing; his head was bowed when she whirled back around to face him, feeling her face contort around huge eyes and hanging jaw. Restless fingertips played in the edges of his cloak, plucking and twisting tiny circles; he definitely wasn’t aware of it. By the time Erin had figured out he didn’t know, so many years ago, she hadn’t cared to tell him.

A glance up, as Erin gaped at him, and there was something liquid in his divergent eyes. The glow had died down completely, the Astral locked away behind poppy-blue colour. Perfectly in control - held down in rigid iron, against its will. “I’m sorry,” he repeated when she did nothing.

Astral burst from her skin, flickers of light breaking out from hands and wrists and forearms like solar flares, and her voice cracked, “You’re  _ sorry?!” _ and everything  _ burned _ as she took a step back towards him. Greyscale overtook her vision, a faintly distorted shiver as her focus fluttered up, and she saw the gleam of their souls encase their bodies like transparent flame. Kaede, just the slightest glimpse to her right, was eerily black - a deep shadow woven with glittering violet ribbons, fire that shrouded rather than consumed, and comforting in her familiarity. In the corner, where she had expected the dim cornflower blue of the masses, Garrett’s captive was instead a soft twilight purple. Not Marked like Kaede - but bound to one who was.

Across from her, leaning into a back-step as if afraid Erin would attack him, his hands coming forward slightly, releasing the cloak and preparing to defend himself, Garrett  _ shone. _ The light that came off him like sweet tongues of flame wasn’t even blue; it was dazzling silvery white, blinding and beautiful, and Erin felt it snarl through her chest and claw out her throat - the rage, the indignance that he  _ dare _ to be like her, to not even allow her  _ this, _ the Astral and the magic that nearly destroyed her.

_ “You’re  _ **_sorry?!!”_ ** she shouted again,  _ screeched, _ and she saw his hand go to his blackjack, saw him alter stance and brace for a fight. “You think  _ sorry _ can make up for what you did to me?”

Searing melting pain, under her skin, the flashes of light and stabbing agonies and the constant weight of morphine and desperate to see and remember and wishing for death in the moments she did. All of it thumped inside her, a rattling warbeat that she couldn’t help and could barely control. The Astral light shimmered up her arms, a heat that pierced her like a thousand hot needles but offered no pain; Garrett’s eyes darted down and back up again, and he took another step away, trying to keep distance.

Erin took a pace closer, wanting to narrow the space, wanting to grab him, break through his Astral,  _ force him _ to confront what he did instead of hiding and pretending and acting like the fact he came to get her afterwards meant a  _ single fucking thing, _ when it was his fault in the first place. And there was something dark, that flickered across his expression, something combative - almost angry, just for a second.

“... I should have handled it better, but what happened wasn’t all on me, Erin,” he growled, and  _ there _ \- there was the fight, twirling blackjack in hand, and shadows melted out from his skin, coiling liquid black that slithered from behind the white flames of his soul and consumed the weapon. It vibrated softly with it, an empty space of corrosive dark.  _ Shadowspun. _ Gleaming blue filled his right eye, almost a solid sheen through her second sight, reflective.

Fine. Then fine. If he really wanted to go there, if he  _ really _ wanted to act like it was somehow  _ her fault-- _ Because of  **course** it was her fault somehow, something she’d done or failed to do, just another way she wasn’t right, wasn’t good enough, had  _ earned _ his abandonment like she hadn’t tried to always live up to his impossible expectations--

“Handled it better?” Seethed from behind her teeth, felt her fingers touch and draw the dagger from her waist; heat and rushing light like liquid as it spiralled down and she wove it into the blade,  _ lightspun, _ and lifted it in a reverse grip that was too tight, and she didn’t care because  _ how dare he. _ “How was I supposed to  _ handle _ it, Garrett? I couldn’t  _ think.” _

His eyes narrowed, flicking to the dagger and back up to her. “You killed someone, Erin. You made their death  _ my _ responsibility.” And there was a tremor to his voice, a deeply rigid and uncomfortable set to his shoulders, a tilt-forward angle to his body that betrayed how much he didn’t want to have this argument, not here, not now - not with witnesses-- and  _ by Void _ but she had forgotten about the witnesses, forgotten about the waif tied up in the corner - and  _ fuck it, _ because she didn’t care, it was Garrett’s fault for bringing them here in the first place, Garrett’s fault for starting this shit, Garrett’s fault for bringing weapons and magic into the fray, Garrett’s fault,  _ Garrett’s fault. _

Like a sledgehammer, the words themselves registered and Erin took an entire step backwards, the astonished shudder running through her.  _ Killed someone? _ What the fuck was he-- “What?  _ What? _ You really,  **seriously** think this is about  _ that?” _ What did she care that he’d thrown her out? What the fuck? That had been so long ago, so many years, and she hated it - still - loathed that his own life wasn’t apparently enough of a good reason for her to kill, when he’d  _ admitted _ to having slain in the past those who had left him no choice - because it was her,  _ just her, _ who wasn’t good enough to decide when it was necessary - but it was so long ago and she’d been fine  _ without _ him and he hadn’t cared anyway, so what did it fucking matter?

Confusion, in the way he tilted his head slightly, the shadowspun blackjack weaving minutely in the air as he held it, defensive. “... It’s not?”

As if he didn’t remember. As if it didn’t matter, as if he hadn’t abandoned her to death and worse for no other reason than to save his own sorry hide, as if she was nothing. And she’d known he didn’t care, not how she’d thought, not how she’d wanted - but she’d at least believed he gave a shit if she lived or died, and even after he’d let her fall she’d thought-- Mistakes happened, he wasn’t perfect, hadn’t he always said it? So she’d thought-- and he’d been there, with her, right up until  _ he wasn’t-- _ and that was too far, too much, and she knew that he didn’t give a single shit about her--

_ So where the fuck did he get off saying ‘sorry’? _

It wasn’t even words, when she shrieked at him in guttural, Primal rage - coiled and leapt in the same second, blinded - and the hand closed tight around her wrist, cutting clean through the bubbling light that boiled off her like she was a lava pool, and yanked her back. She struggled, for a moment, a snarl of protest. Arms closed around her, sparking and spitting and electric and  _ cold _ \- so cool, against the erupting fire of her magic - and Void collided with Astral and she felt them both flee.

Dagger rattled to the floor, light disintegrated around her, and the flutter of her focus snapped back into real colour like being struck. The scent of Void faded to nothing, even as Kaede’s arms tightened around her shoulders and held her close and secure, and Erin was left with the Astral so far away it was nothing more than distant warning - the only heat now came from Kaede’s body so close to hers.

So sudden and sharp, so wrenching that she felt the prick of shocked tears and the absence of magic like having a second skin peeled away from under her first, and it was as much gratitude as the need for comfort that she buried her face in Kaede’s chest and sucked in a jagged breath all the same. Slid her arms around Kaede’s waist and squeezed back - tried to concentrate on Kaede, on the kiss against her hair, for once again -  _ always, always _ \- stopping her from losing herself to the Primal, for dragging her back from magic when Erin could no longer do it herself.

She’d hated it, at first, that Kaede could do that to her. Even when she’d learned that it disrupted Kaede’s magic too, just as violently, she’d  _ hated _ that it was so easy to take away her power, to tear down her defences and deny her the freedom she always had to fight so bitterly for. Now… Now she knew better.

There was… a  _ time _ for control. Erin and Kaede both didn’t bow to any urges but their own, but there were places for self-control - and not blowing apart half the Old Quarter in an all-out Astral fracas was one of them.

Behind her, she could still feel the warm billow of it coming off Garrett in waves, like tangible skylights. “Tsaeke fa, Lantasaría-kana,” Kaede murmured in her ear, soft and regretful. And there were  _ witnesses _ \- Garrett, who had  _ no right _ to this part of her life, who didn’t deserve to know Kaede and see this incredible, terrifying,  _ perfect _ thing that Erin had - and some Mark-bound stranger, unfortunate enough to run afoul of Garrett’s oh-so-precious rules and find themself tied up like an animal in his safehouse.

Erin shook her head, forced herself to disengage. Couldn’t bring herself to let go of Kaede entirely and held her wrist in tight fingers, comforted by Kaede’s touch around her own. Offered Garrett as filthy a glare as she could manage, and tried not to see the wounded shock in his eyes as he let the shadows go and the magic slithered back under his control - without the aid of the Void. “Fuck you, Garrett.”

It seemed so forced, voice shaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Erin. What did I  _ do?” _ And she almost believed it, could  _ almost _ fall into the trap he was setting, and never mind that he couldn’t have emotionally manipulated a bar of soap.

“Fuck you,” she repeated, turning on her heel and dragging Kaede to the still-open window.

“I’m sorry.” Called after her, and still so confused and plaintive, and it pulsed under her skin almost like the Astral itself, a jagged shard of rage as she tried so desperately to kill the thought that  _ maybe he was telling the truth _ and maybe he really didn’t know - because that was bullshit, he knew, he  _ had _ to know. Nobody, and especially not  _ Garrett, _ got to do that to her and  _ not remember. _

Erin paused at the window, still wristlocked with Kaede, and glanced back. Met his gaze, tumultuous and mismatched and… and desperate. Held as much rage as she still had in her own.  _ No. _ “... It doesn’t matter if you’re  _ sorry, _ Garrett,” she spat. “I don’t forgive you.”

And she slipped out the window, Kaede at her side with her constant, comforting touch - and she didn’t look back.

* * *

It had been so undeniably a dismissal that Leon hadn’t gone back.

He  _ wanted _ to - knew it was selfish to want that, knew that Garrett didn’t want anything to do with him and couldn’t find the will to blame him for it. But he still wanted to. It had only been a week, and he’d gone six months-- two seasons after Garrett had rescued him, not made an attempt to find him, stayed away from the Clocktower. Leon hadn’t had any plans to ever seek him out - he hadn’t meant to run into him again.

Hadn’t meant to be  _ saved _ by him again.

And there he’d been, when Leon had puddled back into consciousness; galaxy eyes, blue and brown both swirling with the white flecks like uncounted stars. Swept Leon up into his arms - even though he’d been covered in blood, even though he was a mess of guilt and murder. Risked the ire of his friend. The other Cityzen  _ must _ have been Garrett’s friend, because he’d recognised Leon’s name - and not liked it one bit. Short, like they all were, but with a flaming glint in green eyes and heavyset enough that Leon  _ really _ didn’t feel like being hit by him. Ever. It would hurt like a bitch.

Yet Garrett had risked his own friendship just because Leon had been stupid enough,  _ reckless _ enough, to trigger a seizure in public, to kill when there was no need - lost in panic, in the past. As if it hadn’t been his own stupid fault. As if there was any single good reason to have lost control so drastically, when the threat he’d been afraid of didn’t even exist anymore.

On the edge of Dayport, Garrett had told him to go home alone - and it was so plainly a dismissal that Leon hated the part of himself that wanted nothing more than to  _ go back. _ And for the last week, he had resisted; it had no basis in logic, and Leon knew that the thief could take care of himself, but he couldn’t shake the fear that Garrett might be hurt. In danger. A constant lingering thing, the threat of panic dogged on his heels. And then, the dreams that weren’t dreams, the swirling figure made of fog and memory, the sweet whispers and beckoning calls and the one who had asked him to stay in The City - and this time the whispers had spoken of  _ him _ and the  _ danger he’d be in. _

Leon wasn’t one to play the pronoun game. In any other scenario he’d have wanted clarification on what ‘he’ the spirit was talking about. But this… He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t convince himself otherwise.

The seizure, when he’d woken from the dream, had been mercifully short and utterly terrifying. When Leon had winked back to reality, Poppy was holding him against her chest, gently smoothing his hair back. It was electric, the touch, in the aftermath with all his senses on hyper alert even while his brain refused to work - it wasn’t a pleasant electricity, almost painful. She stopped, when he flinched away. Apparently, he’d almost smothered himself, facedown in his own pillow.

Just a quick trip. Leon would just nip over to Stonemarket for a few minutes. If he was quick enough, Garrett would never see him, wouldn’t even know he was there. A  _ quick _ pass by, just to make sure that he was safe. Then Leon would leave again, and be less selfish the next time.

All that had kept him from going already was the steady drizzle of sunlight over The City, and Doctor Cassare’s standing orders not to overwork himself. Once it was dark, and easier to navigate unseen, he’d go. He only had to wait until dark.

At least, that was the plan.

Shortly after noon, it began.

Just distant screams, at first, and Leon curled up under his blanket and tried not to listen; the riots were barely even riots, these days. The City was all but lost already, feral and bloody and savage. It was part simple lawlessness, with no Watch or official policing force, no  _ government, _ and on its own the anarchy that ensued was enough to destabilise the entire populace. It was part something uniquely City - a sort of constantly rippling undercurrent of raging emotion and barely suppressed violence that Leon had never felt anywhere else and had seeped out into the cobble and suffused each breath even before Harlan’s regime had been toppled. Without structure, even that imposed by a martial maniac, it had erupted out everywhere, like blood from a slashed throat. It was part fear, Leon knew; The City and its people had no true understanding of the Empire, couldn’t possibly know that being conquered was their last hope for salvation. To a Cityzen, the Empire was a cruel, distant threat that had been gnawing at their borders since Gristol had won the War of Four Crowns. He didn’t blame them for being so afraid, when it was so obvious that they were ripe to finally join the Empire.

It was part starvation. Hunger drove humans beyond reason, turned them into animals. As the violence within The City walls had worsened, the entire northern end of the island had all but annexed their urban neighbours; the farmlands were mostly barren as it was, in the middle of winter, and whatever stockpiled crop that would normally be traded between the citystate farmers and The City urbanites was kept well away from the bloodshed. Nobody wanted to risk getting close enough to trade - and Leon was absolutely certain that attempts to raid the farmhouses would have been met with swift ends.

Leon had been in Morley during the Dreaded Rat Plague. Safe behind the blockade that Gristol had found itself caged in, betrayed and abandoned by the other three Imperial nations.Even in Morley, he’d heard the horror stories - the way Dunwall had all but crumbled, the things that the people had done to each other as their eyes bled and their bodies rotted out from under them.

And death wasn’t unfamiliar to Leon. Everyone had lost someone. It had been nearly a year, now, since Corvo had picked him up from Watch application and swept him up into spywork, into higher order combat, into the Messengers - into magic. He’d been the thirty-third Royal Messenger.

By the time they’d embarked for The City, he’d been the thirty-second. Now, he supposed, there were only thirty-one. At least he hadn’t been carried through Dunwall Tower, still and cold, on velvet. The Messengers hadn’t had to stand their vigil while Corvo marked his body where his rune had been in life - they hadn’t had to watch it fade.

_ Hissing flesh and screaming, the sun itself tasting his back, no fading but a deeply tangible, unnatural  _ **_snap_ ** _ and agony as if kicked in the chest by a horse, and everything unwinding and wishing - praying desperately - that it really was death. _

At least he hadn’t been solemnly dressed in his uniform by the whole Corps. and laid to rest with his fucking chakram. At least he was alive. A Messenger leaving was borderline unprecedented, but he hadn’t died, there’d been no departing ritual. Corvo hadn’t searched for his soul in the Void, just to make sure he wasn’t trapped there. All this; seen before, barely a month after receiving his Bond rune, to mourn the death of a Messenger. Leon and Nathaniel, left to guard Empress Kaldwin while she dismissed court and Corvo slipped away - feeling the nauseating tug below his sternum as Corvo drew on all his Bonds, seeing the way the Lord Protector collapsed just out of sight of parliament and shuddered like he was dying. The week of absolute silence in the aftermath, the way the Messengers had shut down.

Leon wasn’t dead. At least.

And yet, it began with distant screams. Leon expected them to abate, after a minute or two. Usually, whatever sick fun was being had in the streets only lasted about that long. People were fragile things, and broke easily - there was rarely more than a minute of screaming in someone, when you beat them to death or worse.  _ Hoarse after what felt like seconds and eternity at once, nothing but gurgled choking pain as the fire-red end of the third steel rod touched his skin - a jolt, an attempt, but boneless and weak and decimated and yet somehow  _ **_writhing_ ** _ when fat melted and muscle parted. _ He should head down, make sure nobody made trouble for Doctor Cassare, but his grip around the chakram was weak as his resolve.

When, ten minutes later, they had gotten only louder and closer and more tightly packed, Leon finally slipped out of bed, pulled a woolen jersey around himself, and padded out  into the house proper. Poppy flit by, a heavy rucksack on her shoulders that seemed almost larger than she was, and one floor up Leon could hear Doctor Cassare moving frantically.

“Poppy?!” he called anxiously, following behind her. “What’s going on? What is all that?” With a gesture towards the outside; the chaos. It was louder now - a surge. Not a riot, but something altogether more primitive. Not anger -  _ fear. _

Her eyes shot to Leon, and she stopped dead. “... Leon.” Breathed. Horrified. Like she’d forgotten he existed. “You need to get somewhere safe. You need to  _ go, _ Leon, somewhere  _ safe. _ Before they find you here.” He resisted, the way it twisted in his gut and told him she wanted rid of him.  _ Too dangerous. Too much extra risk and effort. _ And he did his best, to silence the voice in the back of his mind that told him that. Only realised he was standing there, staring stupidly, when Poppy came closer and tugged on his shirt.  _ “Leon. _ I mean it, you aren’t safe here. They can’t find you here.”

“Who?” Dimly. Numb.

Poppy shook her head, and Leon realised that it was panic in her eyes, sheer and tumbling and utterly afraid. “The invasion, Leon. The Empire.”

For a long minute, Leon couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t think, could barely breathe.  _ The Empire. _ He’d known it was only a matter of time before they came, known all too well that The City wasn’t long left for independence - but it still rang in his ears, the proclamation.  _ They were here. _ All at once, chest collapsing, Leon realised how right Poppy was. They couldn’t find him here. He was Imperial, and he’d abandoned his Crown-given task to remain in enemy territory.

“Leon, please,” Poppy began again, managing to extricate one hand from all she carried and squeeze Leon’s elbow. “You need to go. I know how the Empire treats its turncoats.”

“I’m not--” and he stopped. He wasn’t? Really? Because he’d abandoned everything he was loyal to for starry eyes and dreams. “I’m…” Met Poppy’s gaze, didn’t even think to question why she was so certain of the fate that would befall him. The Eternal City was isolated, on an island all its own. The invasion force here would have come by ship. That meant the Navy.

That meant Grand Admiral Haethel.

“I’m going.” Ducked back into his room just long enough to put his boots on. “I’m… Good luck, Poppy. I’m sorry.” For everything that was going to happen. For what his people would do to Poppy’s home. Benevolent as an invading force could be or not, under orders not to pillage the place or not, managed by Messengers  _ or not _ \- Leon knew what war and combat did to people. The soldiers might not be evil, but all the discipline and kind intentions in the world became ash drowned in battle-lust and the rush of power. Leon knew only too well.

Her voice was soft, and so, so sad, when she called after him. “Thank you, Leon. Keep to the rooftops. Stay safe.”

He did as he was bidden. It was a quick climb, up to the roof of Doctor Cassare’s house, and once he was outside the noise became suffocating. For a minute, he just looked out and studied. Cityzens were running in waves, filling the streets and trampling each other, trying to head for the inner districts faster than everyone else. Maybe it was Leon’s imagination, but he looked out towards Cinderfell, further back and more to the east, and… he thought he could see the gleam of the Imperial uniform. Silver and blue, and the spotted in mix of red of the Navy - he wasn’t sure, the distance and the sunlight making it too hard to be certain, but he could imagine it clearly.

And that was no mistake. They  _ were _ here. The Empire had arrived, and down below him the streets flooded as The City began to flee.

Leon ducked as he caught sight of movement, flashing by two buildings over. Peeked out - nothing, and adjusted, and  _ there. _ Already two streets further, and Leon could imagine the writhing shadows behind the eyes, head flickering back and forth to monitor the crowds. He recognised the dark grey uniform that had just shot past.  _ Messenger. _ Part of Leon couldn’t help but wonder who it was - a clawing, desperate need to give chase, call out, see their face. A Messenger. His family.

Only the need to see Garrett safe as this happened, the need to get  _ away _ so that he couldn’t bring disaster to Doctor Cassare and Poppy, stopped him from doing something so monumentally idiotic. Instead, he watched the Messenger blink out of sight and then turned towards Stonemarket.

Garrett would be safe in the Clocktower from the Imperial army, but not from the Messengers. Not from Dark Vision.

The journey over was easier for the streets being a panic. Nobody looked up - nobody was in the slightest bit worried about there being someone on the rooftops, even in broad daylight. At the same time, it was much harder for the Messengers. Leon saw two more, on the way over - ducked down and curled small and prayed they didn’t catch sight of his yellow glow through his cover.  _ Keep your eyes down. _ He knew what they were doing, flitting back and forth across the waves, trying to keep as much peace and preserve as much life as possible. Not to interfere with the Cityzens, because they would only panic more, but to prevent their own forces from making a mess.

If Leon had any luck left, they would be too focused on the people below to catch sight of him.

Until he reached the Clocktower, Leon’s luck held. He didn’t dare scale the side of it - and the thought was absurd, because he was meant to be just be doing a quick run-by check - except the Empire was here. The City was in panic and swarming with Messengers. Trembling broke out in his limbs as he watched, thoughts swirling. Garrett had to know, already, what was happening. Was he even still in there?

Habit, one Leon desperately hoped to lose: he reached for the magic to call up Dark Vision, clenching his hand, and floundered when he found nothing - felt it contract in his stomach even as it ballooned in his chest, a hollow weight that pressed outwards like a second heartbeat.  _ Idiot. The Void is gone. _ And he didn’t know what the Messengers thought of him. Did they think he was dead? Did they know him to be a traitor?

_ A traitor. _

The word sat on the back of his tongue, too jagged and heavy to speak, and he tried to swallow around it; scrunched up his face when it hurt. In all the time since staying behind, he hadn’t thought of himself as a traitor. He still thought about the Empire as home - he was still… one of them, an Imperial, a  _ Morlesian. _ Even though Dunwall was where he belonged, where his family was - by magic, if not by blood--

Except they weren’t. He didn’t even have magic anymore, his Bond rune dissolved and flaked off underneath the mark of The City that had claimed him. He’d forsaken his duties, forsworn his oaths. Right now, in the middle of an invasion, here he was - not with the Imperials, and not helping the Messenger Corps., but… looking for a Cityzen thief, trying to make sure he was safe.

And it wasn’t even a decision he remembered making. It was… He hadn’t even thought about it. Leaving Doctor Cassare and Poppy was the logical thing to do, the  _ safe _ thing - to protect them. The invading armies wouldn’t hurt them. The Messengers would make sure of it, and Grand Admiral Haethel knew the value of homeground medical personnel, knew how important it was to keep them open to alliance. Leon’s presence was the biggest risk to them.

Coming here… was  _ not _ logical. Nor was it safe. Leon was in the open, just  _ begging _ to be seen by a Messenger, and Leon didn’t doubt that for every glimpse he’d caught of them, blinking across the rooftops at breakneck pace, there had been a dozen opportunities for them to spot him. And if he was caught - being here made him a risk to Garrett, too.

He couldn’t scale the Clocktower. He  _ shouldn’t, _ even if it were safe to do so. Invading Garrett’s home was a monumentally stupid and selfish idea. And doing so would only risk investigation from anyone who saw him, Messenger or no. The best thing he could do was get away and hide until it was safe to come out.

Would he approach the Messengers? He hadn’t moved yet, crouched in the pale shadow of the tower, pressed against the stone. Still visible, as if waiting to be caught. Had he meant to? When he’d first stayed, he’d known the invasion was inevitable. Had he meant, even then, to approach the Messengers when they came? Until now… it hadn’t ever occurred to him, to wonder about it. It had been hard enough to survive the present, never mind the future. Did he simply melt into the masses with everyone else? Become a Cityzen?

It would never work. He was too tall, too dark-skinned. His hair was a faintly ruddy black, and that was about the only bit of him that might pass as native. Cityzens had black or brown eyes, sometimes green and even more rarely, dark blue - but not the red-copper Leon had. Anyone from the Empire would make him as Morlesian at a glance.

But he couldn’t approach the Messengers. Poppy was right. He was a  _ traitor. _

A sharp prick behind his eyes, as he floundered in the realisation. Curdling stomach and the stinging scrape of his own clothes against his skin. He was always too sensitive after a seizure, but it had been long enough that just the fabric shouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was just the stress. Fear carved a path through his chest at the thought - Doctor Cassare was quite certain Leon’s seizures were stress-triggered, whether it was emotional and mental, or by virtue of straining his body too far. This… This was an invasion, and Leon wasn’t even certain what side he was on. If anything was stressful enough to trigger it…  _ No. Don’t. _ Offering a silent prayer to the Outsider, Leon closed his eyes and tried to calm the way his pulse rose.

Even with his eyes closed, he should have felt it. The faint flutter of Void energy as someone blinked nearby had always been cool and comforting, while Leon had been a Messenger. He’d been able to feel it, like a breeze that didn’t ruffle his hair.

Now, he didn’t even notice anything until he heard the footsteps land nearby, frantic and running, and the breathless  _ “Leon…?!” _ that hit him only half a second before another body.

Stiffening reflexively, trying to swallow the surge of panic that came with the sudden tension in his muscles, and eyes flashing open to a burst of sand-blonde hair in his face; trying not to squirm, even though it felt like static and lightning being encased in a bone-crushing hug, even through the terror and twitch of violence because he was  _ trapped _ and he didn’t know  _ who it was, _ even as the touch made his skin prickle painfully. Achingly motionless in the grip, trying to  _ breathe _ so he could come up with a plan of action, or recognise the person who had caught him - and all in a split second, pulse jumping to a thunderous crash in his ears, a fraction of a moment in which Leon’s thoughts shut down and there was nothing but the fear.

And then, so fast he couldn’t even begin to control it, the fight response. One hand went up to get a fistful of hair, even while the other reached back to dig nails into one of the arms around his neck; Leon stomped down  _ hard, _ heel into his attacker’s instep, and the moment they flinched back he tore the arm away, dragged down on their hair as heavily as he could, and kicked out. Connected - straight into the front of their knee, currently bearing their full weight while the other foot was still half lifted, recoiling from where he’d already struck.

The sickening  _ crack _ was almost lost under the piercing scream and  _ thud _ as they crumpled. The whole plaza went still and silent, looking towards the noise - and Leon didn’t care, was barely aware of them as the fight drained from him and the scream echoed in his ears. Didn’t feel his own knees slam into the top of the archway, didn’t hear the shuddering sob as terror overtook him again.  _ Screaming and fire and dark so long he couldn’t tell where it ended and when time began again, couldn’t remember which screams were his own and which arose from Harlan’s other playthings. _

“...n-- Leon, Leon!” His name broke through, and Leon found himself cowering against the side of the Clocktower, flat on his knees, hunched over - arms over his head, and jaw clenched shut so tightly the pain was already moving from joint to temple and sparking a headache.

Finally…  _ Wait…. _ Leon registered the voice as familiar.

When he looked up, it was light Grist skin, sand-coloured hair, eyes he knew were blue-green but couldn’t see for being scrunched up in agony -  _ Nevaeh _ \- hunched into herself, hands holding her thigh too tightly, whimpering through her teeth, shuddering. Her knee, where Leon had kicked it, was broken - blood puddled under it, a steady  _ drip-drip, _ and fragments of white were visible through the skin.

He’d kicked it out the wrong way. Open fractured her leg.  _ Nevaeh. _ Nausea rose up, compounded by fear, choking and sharp.  _ Outsider, no. _ He’d done this. To Nevaeh, to a Messenger, to who was supposed to be his  _ sister _ \- and it wasn’t just a sparring injury, breaks like this could be permanent. If he’d shattered her kneecap, if it didn’t heal right…. She curled in on herself, shoulders taut, trying not to cry out again.

Below them, the plaza had flared back to life - the Cityzens had seen them, up on the arch, and they were fleeing in the opposite direction. Screaming, panicking. At least they weren’t throwing things.

“Leon.”

Familiar, but not Nevaeh. Slowly, so slowly he could hear the bones turning in his neck, Leon looked up into the face of another Messenger. Pale skin, ice pale, with Tyvian freckles and white-blonde hair and haunting, lavender eyes.  _ Aislynn. _ Next to her, taller but flanking, their skin the same deep brown-black as Leon’s and watching with wide, amber eyes, was Kinsley. They were trembling, looking between Leon and Nevaeh on the ground, lips parted.

Aislynn, hands on her hips, didn’t look half as freaked out as Kinsley did, but there was a shadow in her eyes and a hollow raggedness in her voice. “... It’s really you. Leon. You’re  _ alive.” _

Flinched, pressed further back against the Clocktower. Leon looked away, shoulders hunched - it didn’t matter what he’d intended now, the Messengers had found him, and  _ he was a traitor, _ and he’d brutally wounded Nevaeh already, and wasn’t it just so obvious how much he’d--

Leon yelped, a shrill frightened sound, when arms closed around him. A moment later -  _ panic. _ He struggled, jerked back, trying to shove Kinsley away without hurting them like he’d hurt Nevaeh, choked on a sobbed whine as their touch set his skin alight again. Shuddering; but Kinsley let go, moved away a little, and when Leon could finally look at them again, he was met with a gaze that was huge, and liquid, and concerned.

_ Concerned. _

Over Kinsley’s shoulder, Aislynn had summoned over another Messenger - red-brown hair, the caramel tan of Serkonos, nodding mutely with Aislynn’s words. Lucien. He nodded again when Aislynn was done, turned, snagged his sky blue gaze on Leon. Caught and held, just a moment, like the threat of a tear in fabric, and then offered his back; Nevaeh was scooped up in his arms, and she shrieked as she was - snarled and hissed apologies a moment later. There was a tension in Lucien’s body that wasn’t quite right, not just picking up Nevaeh. She’d been a plague orphan in Dunwall, she was small and light and would never recover what starvation had taken from her - and Lucien was Serkonan, Karnaca-bred, never spent a day on the streets. Built like a blood ox. Leon had seen him lift  _ Corvo _ on a good day.

Something… else, in his shoulders, pulling them taut. Then he blinked, and was gone.

“... Fuck,” came Aislynn’s muttered curse as she paced closer, running a hand through her hair. “Fuck- Okay, Kinsley, you know where the looting party is set up?” Kinsley nodded, didn’t take their eyes off Leon. “Okay. Take Leon there. Take him to Phoebe. I need to go find Micah -  _ fuck, _ we need to find Jay and tell her Nevaeh’s--  _ Shit. _ Okay, just get him to Phoebe. I’ll meet up with you later.”

And Aislynn was gone, blinked away already, leaving Leon with Kinsley and more questions than he could even parse. “... Phoebe-- What do you mean, find Jay-- Oh Void, I’m-- I didn’t meant to hurt Nevaeh-- Phoebe’s here? How many did Corvo send? Kinsley-- I’m sorry, Kinsley-- I don’t--” Spilling out uncontrolled, barely hearing his own words, and Leon couldn’t even be sorry when Kinsley opened their mouth to try and answer at least on of them, and Leon straightened up like a shot as something else hit him, still on his knees, quivering. “Wait-- Jay-- Is that why Luc was so-- Oh Void, what happened to Jay?”

“Shh- Leon. Please, you need to calm down.” Hands up, their eyes darting over Leon as they looked for injury, but Kinsley refrained from touching him again, seemed to have recognised he didn’t want it. “One question at a time, alright, and I can answer them all on the way to Phoebe. Yes, she’s here. Can you stand alright?”

Kinsley stood up, offered Leon a hand but didn’t seem to expect him to take it. Waited quietly, watching Leon for pain or falter - he latched onto the question, something that made sense - something simple and straightforward and not--  _ He’d kicked out Nevaeh’s knee, he was a traitor, he had no idea where Garrett was, if the thief was safe-- _ “Y-yeah.” He didn’t take their hand, but Leon hauled himself to his feet and tried to pretend he wasn’t shivering where he stood. “I-- I’m sorry.”

A shake of the head, even as Kinsley ran a hand through their hair. “It’s alright. She- She really missed you.” Like a blow to the gut, and Leon looked away and tried -  _ so hard _ \- not to feel the hot liquid welling up in his eyes.  _ Of course she did. _ Nevaeh had joined only a few months before Leon had. They’d been best friends.  _ And I abandoned her. Just like I abandoned everyone else. _ “You seem really freaked out.” Softly, lacking judgement - pointing out the obvious and somehow not sounding like an asshole, in that way that Kinsley had. “She jumped you, didn’t she?” Leon nodded. “Yeah. I’m not surprised you reacted like that. We all would have. In most cases, she would have known better.”

But not this case. Because she hadn’t even known if Leon was alive -  _ Void, did they all think he was dead? _ \- and she didn’t know, she didn’t know that it had been Leon’s choice, she didn’t know it wasn’t some top secret mission from Corvo, she didn’t know  _ anything _ \- none of them did.

“You got another question?” Kinsley asked softly, even as they stepped to the edge of the arch and beckoned Leon after them. Dimly, Leon followed - came alongside them, and stared blankly at the building that was too far away from him to jump to.

“... Yeah.” He did. He knew he did. “I… How… many of y-” Kinsley blinked across, took several steps, and then turned back. They wore a positively confused look, as Leon just stood there; Leon had always been the first to blink, used magic more often and more flagrantly than was ever necessary. Had loved the feel of it too much, the Void blowing through his body like a cool wind, like sea salt on his skin.

But he couldn’t. Not anymore. Anxiously, Kinsley blinked back and leaned in a little closer. “Leon?” they asked, eyes glittering.

For a moment, Leon couldn’t do more than shake his head. Choked on it. “I…” Heard his voice break, as if from a distance; too much, all too much. Caught, and  _ they didn’t know, _ and they were treating him like their brother, like he belonged with them.  _ Phoebe was here. _ “I can’t.”

“Blink?” And there was an edge of fear in Kinsley’s voice now, as they registered the admission and didn’t understand why. Leon always had plenty of magic; sure, he wasn’t on Jay’s level, or Keenan’s, but he had enough to waste. “What do you mean, you can’t blink? What’s wrong?”

And he couldn’t do it. His jaw tensed, tried to form the right words - Leon felt the gaps in his teeth like searing wounds again, shame and blood on his tongue. Unnatural, hollow points in his mouth that two seasons hadn’t afforded him familiarity with, startling and like weights in his chest all the time as his tongue encountered where they should be and weren’t. They  _ burned _ now, and Leon felt the wet burst from its own surface tension and roll down his cheeks. The brand on his back was like being flayed; almost the same as having his fingernails torn out, if the other plaything-prisoner’s screams had been anything to judge by.

Couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to say it. Kinsley’s hand hovered by his shoulder, seeing the tears - frantic to reassure him, not knowing how, not understanding why Leon was freaking out. And he couldn’t find the words, or his voice, so Leon slowly turned his back and tugged up his shirt, already too light for being outdoors in The City winter, and shuddered as the cold bit into his skin.

He heard their gasp, when he got the shirt up far enough and Kinsley saw the brand. The absolute lack of rune remaining underneath it. The faintest whiff of heat, close to his skin, as Kinsley’s hands came close and then they pulled away again, refraining from touching him. Leon let the shirt drop, half-turned back - hugged himself.

“... Leon… I… What…?”

Questions. They both had questions.

“I lost it,” the words burst from Leon’s throat in a sob, and he hugged himself tighter, dug his fingers into his upper arms; fought the shiver as the mismatch of those that had grown new nails and those that hadn’t pressed into his skin. “I was-- I lost it. I’m not-- I’m not a--”

Their hands tightened on the air, and it was so obvious Kinsley wanted nothing more than to hug him, but they didn’t. Simply took a breath and offered Leon one of their arms. “I’ll take you. Once we get to Phoebe, it’ll be okay. You hold onto my arm, alright? Hold tight. I won’t hold onto you back.” All gentle and reassuring, soothing. They held Leon’s gaze as they spoke, and even though the hand at their side was clenched so tight their knuckles had gone from black to pale, the arm Kinsley had offered to Leon was held easy and perfectly steady.

_ Phoebe. _

Nodding, Leon tried to swallow the tears and carefully wrapped his hands around Kinsley’s forearm. It still felt… not good, the brush of their skin on his, but it was just his palms, and he could pull away if he wanted, and Kinsley didn’t touch him back. “You ready?” they asked, a soft as a spring breeze, and Leon nodded again.

It felt almost invasive, the way Kinsley’s magic wove around his body before they blinked, sea water closing over his head instead of caressing, and Leon had never gloried in anything more.

* * *

He was still numb.

Oh, there was buzzing - a constant static buzz in his head that just didn’t seem to go away, an odd tingling buzz that filled his entire body, rising and falling under his skin with his heartbeat. The whispery buzz of the Primal, rolling behind his eyes in a slow tide.

But everything was so… numb. His chest felt too heavy, his heart a foreign thing that thumped against his ribs like a prisoner begging for release. He was pretty sure he had yet to actually  _ think _ anything. Every few seconds - or… maybe it was longer, once or twice a minute, maybe even less, he didn’t know, he didn’t  _ care _ \- he’d realise he wasn’t breathing and consciously inhale, hold it for a few seconds, exhale again. Take another one if he remembered.

Everything was running on automatic, and it turned out that Garrett was an absolutely subpar machine, because  _ nothing _ was working like it should, and even when he did it all manually it wasn’t right.

On the far side of the room, watching him with intense silver eyes, was the Messenger.  _ Jay, _ her name was. Right? Kaede had said-- and he shuddered, and the thought - was it even a thought? - died abruptly and withered into nothing, and Garrett stared at Jay’s face without seeing it, wondered idly why she was staring back, realised he hadn’t breathed yet. The inhale hurt, when he took one, but holding four seconds helped, and letting it go helped even more. Another - five seconds in, four seconds held, five seconds out. Three seconds between, five seconds in, four seconds held, five seconds out.

Master Amber had taught him that. Right? He could hear her voice, in his head - distant and whispery and sweet.  _ “Shh. Come on, Garrett, breathe with me, there it is. In… Hold… Out… Wait. That’s great, Garrett, I’m so proud of you. With me, breathe in. Hold. Out. Wait.” _

Movement, and Garrett snapped back from the memory, Master Amber’s voice going silent. Jay had shifted slightly, went still as Garrett fixed on her. He wasn’t sure what she’d been doing a minute ago - a minute, or however long it had been, he wasn’t sure. The wall was cold at his back, the floor cold under his butt, his bow cold in his hands across his lap. Everything was cold, and numb, and buzzing.

Stared, waiting for Jay to move again - and she held the gaze, unblinking, waiting for… something. Had to be  _ something. _ Garrett watched her so closely he couldn’t even see her anymore, broken down into senses and details and nothing. He could almost count her freckles, from here; dotted across her face like round islands, like her skin was a map.

His chest hurt.  _ Take a breath. _ Inhaled sharply, five seconds, held. Four seconds. Six.  _ And out again, Garrett. _

Thank the gods for Master Amber, as he exhaled. It was so, so distant, the memory of her teaching him to breathe through the panic, but the echo of her voice was there. Faint and soft, only the smallest fraction louder than the Primal static, but still guiding him. So many years later.

The movement caught his eye again, and he was getting used to the way his senses just didn’t seem to be turned on when he wasn’t paying attention to them. Studied Jay, and took a minute to realise what was different this time. She’d slid down the wall, twisted slightly - lay on her side, and her hands and feet were pressed into the corner where they knotted together.

Her limbs must be getting achingly sore, being pulled back into that position for so long. Cramp was inevitable, if it hadn’t already struck. Garrett wondered, watching her blankly, if he simply hadn’t heard the whimpers of pain, or if she hadn’t made them.

_ “I don’t forgive you.” _

A different voice, sharp and cutting and  _ so much closer, _ and Garrett wasn’t sure if he’d shut his eyes or they’d just stopped working again, but he didn’t see Jay anymore.  _ Erin didn’t forgive him. _

For what?

She’d said-- She’d seemed so…  _ upset _ when Garrett had implied it was about what had happened between them, how her apprenticeship had ended. All but said it wasn’t about that. But then… what? Their years together hadn’t been smooth, certainly, but nothing so bad had happened that would warrant such a reaction.

Light, boiling off her very skin, bursting through in molten bubbles and curling vapour, the blue-green smoke that had wafted up from her eyes as the pale ice blue had lit up like floodlights, and then the flare of focus overtaking his own - the way her eyes had looked solid blue, reflective, like azure mirrors, and the way her soul had glowed blindingly, perfectly white, like untouched snow in high sunlight.

Her dagger had been so painful to look at that Garrett hadn’t even tried, sparking and pulsing even whiter than Erin’s body through focus.  _ Lightspun. _ It had registered, somewhere so far down in his hindbrain that he didn’t know where it had come from, and hadn’t even realised she’d been threatening him with the weapon until she’d lunged.

And she’d  _ lunged, _ like an animal backed into a corner, with a screech like Red Jenny, and only Kaede cutting through the Primal had brought her to a stop. Garrett had felt the Void burn cold even at that distance, felt the buffer of it press against the Primal in his body for a fleeting second and then watched Erin’s magic snap and vanish in the same moment the Void did.

Watched Kaede wrap Erin in her arms and kiss raven black hair and murmur in her ear. Watched Erin squeeze back,  _ cling, _ and then break away.

_ “I don’t forgive you.” _

But for what? If it wasn’t the way Garrett had ended their relationship, cut her off without trial or recourse, and not spoken to her even once in the ensuing years until Basso had tricked them back together - if it wasn’t that, then  _ what had he done? _

Movement, again, faster; and it didn’t stop this time, flashed up and across the room, and Garrett felt his hands tighten on his bow, found himself up on one knee and drawing back an arrow before he could even realise what was happening. Panic, for a single sheer second - memory again.  _ I’m not carrying any sharps. _ He couldn’t accidentally murder her.

And he would have, if it had been a sharp arrow nocked to his bowstring, as Jay sprinted to the window Erin and Kaede had left open and Garrett had yet to shut (and maybe that was why it was so cold). The blunt arrow struck her in the middle of the back, right between her shoulder blades, just ever so slightly a hair to the left.

There was a squeak, because at such a close range from full draw, even a blunt hurt like a bitch, and then she’d scrambled out and-- vanished, in the briefest reverse pop of blue light.

Across the room, in the corner, watching him when he slowly slid back down the wall and stared ahead, there was a sleek grey rabbit, its ears a little longer than seemed natural, sticking out over its back. Violet eyes blinked, once - the rabbit rose onto its hind legs, sniffed the air - and the whole creature broke down and dissolved into black fog. In the span of a second, the fog turned to wisps turned to ash turned to nothing.

And he was alone. Just like that.

Garrett didn’t even have it in him to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lost these notes at least three times, so for now all you get is _wow this chapter is fucking angst._
> 
> Oh, also: [Translations.](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qocss-b-ITERtbTCXVnGmY4Fj-jIrlZw7_UKj4XcbHM/edit#)


	7. What Those Who Feel Might Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some of us feel, and some of us are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I published another part of **Just Another Word!** I know that JAW is supplemental to the MAA series, and certainly not essential - but I _highly_ recommend reading the latest chapter: ‘In Death We Believe’ because it is, in fact, supplemental reading for this series.  
>  It’ll be worth it later, I promise.  
> Also… self-whoring alert.
> 
> [In Death We Believe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244270/chapters/38746649)

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Her voice sounded too dazed, gaze locked on the half-empty cup of tea that was stone cold by now; rigid, not paying attention.  _ Asking _ to be killed. Except she had long since lost the chill of the Void, lost an eye, lost an arm.

Lost.

And even were she alert and ready, she didn’t stand a chance should the woman before her wish her harm, so what was the point? Better, then, to sit stiff and stunned, and hang herself on a stranger’s mercy.

The voice, when it responded, was papery thin and raspy with age. “Would you believe me if I said I simply wanted someone to know?”

Billie looked up, finally, and met the milk-blind eyes that had fixed - unerringly - on her the whole conversation. She felt the time in the ache of her muscles, the way she’d sat through half the night and most of the day. A stinging sensation behind her eye, the way her head felt heavy and fuzzy and sore. Sleep deprived, and no small amount overwhelmed. The expression on wrinkled face and translucent lips was amused. “No,” Billie told the Queen, and tried to ignore how many of her beggars littered the chapel around them.

Some, Billie was certain, were armed. Perhaps not with traditional weapons, but the human body was fragile and easily slain. If the Queen came out of this conversation unsatisfied… Billie had little doubt of what would happen to her. She’d been with Daud long enough to understand.

Laughing, the Queen gestured for Billie to put her chipped teacup down on the small table. “Clever girl. Would you like the truth, then?” Swallowing, Billie nodded.  _ Yes. _ Obviously. A second later, she wondered if she’d regret that choice; sometimes, she knew only too well, the truth was nothing but misery and burden. “Well then. I am old, child.”  _ Yeah, no shit. _ There was no bite to the thought - distant disbelief, her expectations unwound. “Everyone, even I, must eventually face the Void.”

_ No. _ This thought, this one was a little hysterical.  _ According to you… not everyone. In fact-- most. _

It must have shown on her face, even though the Queen was blind and couldn’t have seen it, because she laughed again; the sound was as aged and flaky as her skin. “Merely a figure of speech, child. You have served the Void, in the past. I can smell it on you.” A shiver, at that - but Billie believed it. Daud had described the scent of the Void, before, and when Billie would accompany him to an Outsider shrine and the trance would overtake him and his Mark would turn white, Billie would smell it in the air, distant and faint and wickedly sharp.

“So why tell me, then? Because you’re dying?”

“In so many words… yes.” Quite calmly.

Billie stared at her, licked her lips. Tried to process.  _ Primal. Gods, more than one - more than two. Ancient and angry and trapped - and free now.  _ **_Angry._ ** The idea that the Outsider was one of multiple - the  _ weakest _ of multiple - or at the least, the  _ youngest _ of multiple - and Billie’s head swam as she tried to comprehend the reality of witnessing such power, for so long, and she couldn’t quite meet the Queen’s eyes. “So… What by Void do you want from me?”

They were insane, the things the Queen had told her. Half of them didn’t make any sense.  _ You can’t trap a god in a rock. _ If it had been another night, in another place, Billie would have written the Queen off as mad as Granny Rags had been and left it at that.

But glowing blue eyes reminded her, the twist and warp of light and sight.  _ Iseya. _ She had been a witch, that was beyond doubt, but… Billie had already seen that it was not of the Void.

_ So Astral. Not Marked. Attuned. _

Billie still wasn’t entirely sure she even understood what that meant.

“I have been granted many boons over my long life, child, but I am not what I once was. What you are. I cannot fight these battles anymore. My bones will not allow it.” Something almost… wistful, in her ancient parchment voice. There was a cadence to it, an almost lyrical quality that Billie just couldn’t place. The trace of an accent maybe, just a whisper of something that wasn’t quite City - but wasn’t Imperial, wasn’t anything that Billie recognised.

_ For as long as the Stone has existed, _ she’d said. What had the Queen sounded like, all those years ago, when she’d been chosen?

But Billie shook her head of the thought, put away such useless fancy. The past didn’t matter and the future hadn’t happened - she needed to focus on this, on  _ now, _ and Billie was growing more and more afraid of what might become of her if she didn’t. “So what. You want me to fight your battles? I know you’re blind, but I’m not exactly a warrior anymore.” As scathing and bitter as she could manage, forcing her voice into a cutting edge when she felt none. Old habits, it turned out, died very hard indeed.

“You seek power,” the Queen returned instead, and there was a little uptick in the corner of her mouth that set Billie’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t a question. She  _ knew. _ “The Outsider will never Mark you, child,” she said softly, with such a deep affection as she spoke the god’s name. Billie bristled, felt it run down her spine like intangible quills, and grit her teeth. “It isn’t through any fault of your own. You simply don’t… offer what he seeks.”

“And what’s that?” she spat back despite herself, hand clenched in her lap.  _ I knew that already. _ In her darkest moments, when she was alone and unable to lie to herself any longer. It had been… so, so long. The Outsider was not interested in her.

But it didn’t make it sting any less, the rejection. Knowing that she’d never be able to touch the Void on her own. The sick, burning  _ want _ to have the power back. The Queen smiled, her teeth shockingly intact, and Billie couldn’t stop the uneasy shiver that flowed out across her skin. “Unpredictability. Your desires are straightforward, Billie.” It wasn’t the first time the Queen had spoken her real name tonight, unprompted and untold.  _ Meagan, _ Billie wanted to correct her - didn’t dare. “You are loyal. Predictable. A good soldier, an  _ excellent _ lieutenant, and a terrible leader.”

“Excuse me?” she blurted, voice shooting up an octave, nails digging into her palm and feeling herself half-rise. The lift burned in her thighs as she did, unprepared for the effort after so long sedentary on her ass.

“You need not take offence, girl. Most people are bad leaders - especially those who seek and find leadership. Now, your Master…” A short cackle. “Oh, he’s a good leader. A pity, you could not see it.”

It crashed down on her, as the Queen spoke, and Billie found herself all but collapsed in her seat, staring at the ancient woman with one wide eye, lips parted. Not that she knew - because she  _ knew, _ of course she did, and Billie couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was by her own merit, and how much the Outsider had whispered in her dreams - but that she was  _ right. _ “You know where he is.”

“Do not be daft, girl.” And Billie flinched as it came out whiplash sharp and biting. “I have no interest in finding your lost Master. It has been centuries since I held a care for the Marked.”

“But-”

“You wish to know why I told you all this?” Mutely, Billie nodded. “... I did not fool myself wishing that this would be easy for you, girl. You are lost without your family - hush, you know the ones of whom I speak - and you are unwhole.” Finally, Billie looked away.  _ Unwhole. _ She didn’t know if the Queen meant physically, or otherwise, and it didn’t matter either way. There were parts of herself that Billie would never get back, in both meanings. “But you have the means and the will to do what must be done. For that end… I have told you the truth of this world, of this City.”

Silence, then, that stretched for too long, until Billie finally broke and looked up again, and was met with pearlescent eyes that surely  _ surely _ could not see her but tracked her every movement all the same. Unnerved, because there was no Void in the Queen’s eyes, no magic to give her second sight; at least not that Billie could see. In Corvo’s eyes, she’d seen the shadows writhe like eels, coiled behind his irises, somehow black and nothing at the same time. In Daud’s, the magic had risen like a pool of ink and eclipsed everything, overtaken iris and sclera until he was a mockery of the Outsider himself.

But in the Queen’s eyes… nothing. Billie wasn’t sure if that meant there was no magic… or if the Queen was simply so powerful that Billie couldn’t see it.

Finally, shifting her weight, Billie licked her lips. “... And?”

The Queen laughed. Softly; ominously. “I have a job for you, Billie Lurk, lost right hand of Daud, who needs only his left.” Prose, lyrical in her voice, an ancient timbre that Billie didn’t know and didn’t care to.

“Why me?”

“... The truth, I assume?” A nod. She was too far into it now to back out - might as well commit, even if she fucking hated it. “You aren’t my first choice. You aren’t even my tenth choice. But most of those are dust now - and the one who isn’t…” And finally,  _ finally, _ the white eyes slid off Billie and focused on something else, something distant - something Billie was sure she would never see.  _ Ouch. _ She tried as hard as she could not to think about that, or let it hurt her. Billie wouldn’t have chosen herself first either, in the Queen’s position, no matter what the job was. “I made a promise, some many years ago… So few years ago. I have already broken it once, child, and it ended in disaster.” The empty gaze fixed back on her, and Billie shifted her weight in acute discomfort, wishing that the Queen would just get to the point. She wanted to go - to get the Void out of here and hunker down for some  _ sleep, _ and try not to think about the overwhelming information she’d learned, hovering over her head and waiting to destroy her like a thunderstorm if she let it. “A word to the wise, girl. Do not make promises you are not sure you can keep. A promise is the most powerful gift you can offer another person. Do you understand?”

_ The truth. _ Well, if they were being so honest… “Nope.” It was nonsense, anyway, the sentiment. A promise was meaningless - just air shaped into noise. Billie had never cut through anything so easily as she’d cut through promises.

“... You will, one day,” the Queen murmured. Chills fluttered to life down Billie’s spine. “And so I choose you, in my stead. Perhaps you can succeed where I have failed.” Hand turned palm up, the Queen reached out and allowed the rat on her shoulder to scurry down her arm. It was the same one that had led Billie here - a summons, a Void creature spun from energy made solid, and Billie was  _ certain _ it was a summons, she’d seen the black reflection of it in the creature’s eyes - but it had not been dismissed, and she could not pick out even the faintest glow to herald that it was being sustained. “Barnabus will remain with you. He will be my presence at your side, along with this.” She plucked a chess piece from the board nearby -  _ the queen _ \- and pressed it into Billie’s hand. Her skin felt soft and dry, like decaying paper. The chess piece was cold, carved from something black and smooth; not stone, but not quite glass either.

“You haven’t even told me what you want me to do.  _ Or _ why I should do it. I don’t work for free, and I didn’t want your… information.” Hadn’t asked for it, or sought it. Hadn’t even known it was available to get, and honestly probably wouldn’t have wanted to hear it if she had.

The Queen hummed. “Your arm.” Billie’s jaw tightened. “There is an artefact, old by your standards, crafted with the Void. It will serve as a suitable replacement for your lost limb, should you locate it. You’ll need a skilled engineer to ensure its working order and fitting, of course.”

_ A… what? Replacement?  _ Forged with the Void.

Billie’s eye went wide, as she understood what it was the Queen was offering her. “You know where it is?” she breathed; fingers tightened on the chess piece, and Barnabus the rat summons chittered in her ear, stuck his nose into it again despite how it made Billie flinch.

“I have an idea.”

And to get that idea, Billie had to cooperate. The rat summons was heavy on her shoulder. It felt like making a deal with a demon, and perhaps - some part of Billie mused - that wasn’t so far from the truth.  _ But… _ A Voidwork arm. It rankled and she hated it, but the Queen was right. The Outsider wasn’t going to Mark her. There was likely no closer she could get to magic - any magic. There were other gods, and Billie couldn’t stop the tiny part of her that wondered if maybe  _ they _ would choose her instead; but surely, what one god discarded, the others would not claim.

But the Queen was dangling it in front of her face like rat bait from a cage, and Billie was the stupid rodent about to walk in.  _ I know this is stupid. Who cares. I want it. It’ll help. I have a better chance of finding Daud if I’m-- And I want it. _

White eyes watched her patiently. Eventually, head tilted away from the rat on her shoulder, Billie sighed. “Okay. What do you want?”

The Queen offered her a wide smile. “It’s quite simple, child. You are a boatwoman. I have need of a boat.” This time, Billie blinked at her - the Wale? What use did the old crone have for the Wale? It figured, though, that she would want the same thing of her that Iseya did.

“... When? And where?”

“There’s an island to the south, not very far from The City docks. It’s called Moira. I want you to ferry anyone who wishes to go.”

_ What. _ Not only was that an absurd and bizarre request, it was  _ open-ended. _ “I won’t allow just anyone on my ship, are you crazy? And for how long? I’m not going to sit here forever taking  _ passengers _ on some City tour.” She had too many things to do, too many secrets on the Wale.

But the Queen was smiling again. “Trust me, child. Only those who need to go will even ask. For how long - until the time comes. You will understand when it happens.”

“Not good enough.” Shot back, almost instantly, jerking her head when Barnabus nibbled on her earlobe. Shudders went through her despite herself. “Timeframes, old woman, or nothing.”

Still smiling. She seemed amused. “If, come the twenty-sixth day of Spring, it has not yet come to pass, then you are free of obligation.”

And it was just more cryptic fucking bullshit, but Billie stayed the urge to flip a table and considered it.  _ Voidwork arm. Voidwork arm. _ That was the prize on the line here, and even if she was making it up…  _ No. _ Billie had a hard time believing the Queen would ever bother to make up such an outrageous lie. Not with everything else she’d disclosed tonight, not when Billie found herself - inexplicably, terrifyingly - accepting it as truth. Besides - if anyone would know where such a priceless artefact was hidden, Billie was starting to think it would be her. “... What day is it today?” As if Billie knew how The City calendar worked. Motherfuckers didn’t even have  _ months. _

“Winter 43rd, child. There are ninety one days in a season.” Definitely amused, that last bit, slipping it in as if Billie were a child being taught basic numbers. Gritted her teeth, hand clenching around the chess queen, but she put it down. She really hadn’t known that.

Some quick math meant that, assuming whatever bullshit the Queen was banking on didn’t happen, Billie would be stuck here for… somewhere in the realm of seventy days.  _ Two and a half months. _ The Queen wanted Billie to fuck around here, for over two months, no doubt with Iseya breathing down her neck, decidedly  _ not _ finding Daud - or the Voidwork arm - and… what, wait?

In the middle of a fucking invasion? If the Queen thought Billie didn’t know about the Imperial ships already on The City’s doorstep, she was as crazy as she was old.

She seemed to read it, the hesitancy, because she tilted her head and spoke up. “You would be protected, insofar as I can promise, to the extent of my abilities.” Silence, for a moment. Billie didn’t  _ know _ what the extent of her abilities might be, but… Given what she was, given everything, given how damn long she’d been using them -  _ Voidwork arm, that’s the prize _ \- then… Billie was willing to bet the full extent of her powers was…  _ vast. _

“... Twenty-sixth day of spring. And all I have to do is take people to this island off the south coast?”

“And back again, should it be necessary.”

“...”

The Queen smiled, her nothing white gaze locked on Billie’s good eye. Even being quite sure she was in no immediate danger, it made her skin crawl. “If it will encourage you, I can assist your search for your Master. I’m sure the Black-Eyed Whale will have something to offer on the matter.”

Eye wide, Billie let that process.  _ The… She’ll ask the Outsider? _ Almost disbelief - except… except it was hardly a hollow promise. There wouldn’t be any building a shrine and praying and hoping he didn’t just ignore the call. It wasn’t like when she tried to get his attention - it was like Daud, hating to come across the shrines himself because it meant speaking to the god.

Slowly, Billie nodded. “... Okay. You got a deal. But I’ll have to deal with Iseya.”

Smiling, equal parts teeth, mischief, and what Billie was  _ certain _ was malice, the Queen held out a delicate, bony hand. “Send her to me. There won’t be a problem.”

“... Alright.”

“Excellent. You have been… most helpful, child.”

And Billie shook her hand, and tried not to look at the Mark that adorned its back.

* * *

This was, as it turned out, shaping up to be a disaster. Phoebe scowled at the reports she’d already received, off and on, Messengers flitting back to the Auldale estate they had claimed as their own. It was a small thing, very close to the great Bridge, and Phoebe alone was enough to defend it against what tiny muster of force The City still had left within it. Already, and she had diverted Lucien and Kataline both from their tasks in her team and put them on duty with Micah’s unit, managing Cityzens and their own armies.

Only Everett and Laylan were out hunting down whatever mystic arts they could find in The City, and Phoebe only prayed they’d come along something that mentioned the Primal soon. The quicker she could stop lying about the god’s existence, the earlier her Messengers would be ready to deal with that risk. And the reports were still coming in, with alarming regularity. Looting, too widespread to manage effectively, and low on the list; there had been two needless murders, between when the army had first breached The City walls and now. Many more cases of assault. One sexual in nature - and Phoebe had thanked Sean for the report, told him to approve Rylan’s decision to escort the offender back to the ships, and offered a quick prayer of thanks to the Outsider that it hadn’t been Carwyn to witness the act.

Now, rubbing her face, Phoebe stared at the newest reports without reading them. The Cityzens had, in a single afternoon, been largely and effectively rounded up. Cinderfall stood empty - had become the base of military operations. The Old Quarter was all but decimated already, and what little presence the soldiers had been able to find there was the first to be put through Imperial registration and certification. Dayport was primed to go tomorrow, patrolled by nearly eight hundred of the invading force alone.

The rest was scattered. A total of a thousand, maybe thirteen hundred, were free-roaming The City, keeping curfew as the sun fell, directing Cityzens that they should remain indoors the following day, or directing them to the nearest Imperial waypoints as they were set up everywhere. Another three hundred dedicated to those waypoints, two hundred more ferrying supplies from ship to City to waypoints and Cinderfall. Phoebe had assigned one Messenger to snag what rations were owed to her Corps. and bring them back to the claimed estate - and Diana wasn’t happy about it, and it was an unfair, hard task, but someone had to do it.

Tomorrow, they’d have to stagger their rotations. This first day had seen almost all of them out in full force, trying desperately to manage the situation. They had the advantage of magic and training and secrets, but they were an absolutely miniscule ratio compared to Haethel’s headcount. The first day or so was always a hard slog - but the Cityzens were so disorganised and scared that it seemed a true display of force or power wasn’t going to be necessary. Hopefully, it would ease up enough overnight to allow a proper rotation of the Messenger teams, and prevent anyone from burning out.

And of course, it was in the middle of that thought that Phoebe heard the commotion outside. She didn’t have anyone stationed at the estate with her, per se, but enough Messengers were flitting in and out that there was little luck in Lucien being spotted blinking in. A shout from outside, and then Braxton came careening into what Phoebe had claimed as her office, even as she stood up. “Yes?”

“There’s a dire situation,” he replied, the words equal distance between formal and blurted, blurred close enough together that Phoebe could read the panic even through the kind of facial control that only came with being born noble. “You must come quick.”

She blinked across the room and was already running, taking a leap off the second floor banister and rolling out her momentum instead of blinking it. A moment later, she’d crossed the threshold and was outside. “Luc?” she began, taken aback by the Serkonan’s presence - and then silenced as her gaze fell to the figure in his arms. Her eyes went wide.  _ “Nevaeh.” _ Horror and panic set into Phoebe’s chest, even as she swallowed them. Nevaeh, Nevaeh. No, it couldn’t be. She was meant to be guarding Garrett - surely, surely he hadn’t made the team  _ that quickly. _ Surely he wouldn’t have stooped so low as to--

_ Oh Void. _ Phoebe’s blood went cold as she registered the actual injury. Dripping red, but that wasn’t what concerned her, not when it was a steady seeping spill and not arterial spurting. Nevaeh was pale and shaking and limp in Lucien’s arms, obviously exhausted by pain and, most likely, no small amount of shock. Her left leg was held at an awkward angle in Lucien’s grip, and Phoebe could see the bone sheared clean through the skin.

It wasn’t an injury she was ever likely to return to duty from.

_ No. _ Surely, Garrett hadn’t done this. They were only trying to keep him safe - Corvo  _ trusted _ him - Phoebe had believed him… better. It didn’t seem right.

But it was foolish, to judge his character. She hadn’t known him long. She hadn’t known him at all.

“Get her inside, Lucien,” Phoebe ordered instead, and they were her equals but she was in command and right now she needed to exercise it, and know that it would be obeyed. Lucien didn’t even hesitate, just blinked past despite the thin sheen of sweat betraying the threat of magic fatigue and did as he was told. She turned to Braxton, still hovering anxiously beside her, waiting for his own instructions. Indecision shone in light green eyes. “Braxton. There’s a doctor in Dayport, by the name Cassare.” He’d helped Leon. It would take twice as long -  _ longer _ \- to fetch one of the Imperial physicians on the ships, and Lucien had already tandem blinked Nevaeh all the way here. It could only make her worse, dragging her all that distance.  _ Why by Void hadn’t they just moored against The City docks? _ “Get him and bring him back. Don’t use force unless you have no choice.”

A quick salute, hands pressed over his heart, fingers splayed. “Yes, Lady Hellstrom.” And he was gone. The faint shiver of Void energy rippled against her skin, and she ran a hand through her hair.

Fuck.

…

_ Fuck. _

It was bad enough that Nevaeh was injured, bad enough this knocked their number down to sixteen active for this mission,  _ bad enough _ that it had been one of Garrett’s bodyguards who’d taken the blow - and Phoebe wanted more than anything to believe the thief wasn’t responsible, but she could think of no good alternatives that involved Lucien being the one to return her, rather than Jay or Keenan - and bad enough that they were at war to begin with. If she couldn’t get a handle on this, they were screwed.

The Messengers didn’t take lightly to someone injuring their own. Especially when it would likely cost Nevaeh her position, magic or no. If it got out who had done it, if it was indeed Garrett, then Phoebe would have a Void-damned riot on her hands trying to keep everyone in line. Discipline or not, one of their own was down. Messengers were typically vengeful creatures.

_ Fuck, _ and she hadn’t even given Braxton orders to keep his damn mouth shut. Normally, she wouldn’t consider that he’d  _ need _ them to exercise discretion, but a Messenger was injured - horribly injured, career-endingly injured - and when it got out, they would all feel it.

Taking a slow breath, Phoebe pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to let that go. It was going to get out no matter what she did; and she wouldn’t lie to the Corps. regardless. So, when it  _ did _ get out, she had to know what to do.

Outsider’s eyes, she didn’t want it to have been Garrett, but she couldn’t think of another explanation. She needed to go see Nevaeh, to ask her what had happened, but she couldn’t do that until Cassare had gotten here, until Nevaeh was in a better state. Lucien might know, given he’d brought her here, but if she asked him, and he’d seen the thief do something like this, then it was going to take more explaining than Phoebe felt she had in her right now.

She shook herself, forced that thought away. Tired or not, she had to do it. She was meant to be leading them - and they were  _ all _ exhausted. It wasn’t an excuse.

Only a moment after she’d turned her back and started walking back inside, she heard the call. “Phoebe!” A little distant, but she turned back and watched someone - Kinsley? It sounded like their voice - blink across the estate wall, tandem with someone attached to their arm - blink down and then across the small garden - and--

_ Leon. _

Phoebe couldn’t even breathe, when the pair finally made it in front of her, knew she was staring but couldn’t help it. As Kinsley came to a stop before her, Leon let go of their arm, took half a step away and held his hands close against his chest. No hugs then - Everett got the same when people kept trying to touch him - but Phoebe hadn’t even moved yet, couldn’t even think about trying to  _ hug _ him.

He looked… surprisingly good. There was a tremble to his body as he stood, as if awaiting judgement - a frantic gleam in his eyes that betrayed a deep anxiety that Phoebe had never seen on him before The City had put it there. Unbidden, a flood of fire and rage broke open in her chest, and she didn’t even feel her hands clench until her nails pressed painfully into her palms. He looked good, but she was comparing him to the last image she had; broken and bloody and barely even able to speak, a shattered shadow of the Messenger he’d been. And perhaps he’d been with them less than a year, but he had been their brother, been one of  _ Corvo’s, _ and they’d loved him. Still loved him. He looked good, now, compared to the savaged remains of the Messenger he’d been - but Phoebe thought back to how he’d been before, to the ravishing grin and the charming Morlesian accent and the constant, quiet confidence, and watching him press into himself like he was  _ scared of her _ made Phoebe want to rip someone’s throat out.

“... Leon.” Said softly, stepping closer but not touching him, one hand lifting and hovering as she had to stay the urge. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Some low noise broke out of him, his chest compressing on it, and he looked away. Seemed to get, impossibly, even further into himself, retreating. “Lady Hellstrom, about Nevaeh - it was an accident, I swear it. Leon was already distraught, and she just jumped him, you know what she’s like, and you can’t punish him for it. Any of us would have r--”

“What?” Phoebe interrupted Kinsley, her voice so sharp that they went subtly stiff, straightening their back. “What are you talking about?” Punish Leon. Why would-- Nevaeh had  _ jumped _ him, Kinsley was saying - they said  _ an accident _ and why would that-- It didn’t make any sense, if Garrett had caught them, if he’d--  _ Leon was already distraught. _ Her eyes went to him, as it registered what Kinsley must be talking about.

Leon. Leon had done this to Nevaeh. It might well have been relief and disbelief both, that bloomed in Phoebe’s stomach now; she stared at him, didn’t see the way his shoulders hunched like they never had before, didn’t see the haphazard cut of his russet-black hair where he’d always kept it pristine, didn’t see how his clothes clung to him wrongly.

He took half a step back at her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I- I didn’t mean to.” A blink, unable to formulate a response, and Leon hugged himself. “She… scared me.”

_ Pull your shit together, Phoebe. _ Harsh, in her own mind, and Phoebe shook herself, forced away the emotions and shoved everything into a little box for later. She could deal with that  _ later. _ For now, she was in command of this situation as it fell to pieces, and she had to damn well act like it. “Come inside. Move.” Led them into the estate proper, made her way up the stairs and back into the room that was now here office. “Kinsley, go find where Luc has taken Nevaeh and see how she’s doing. Braxton should be back soon with a doctor. Help out if needed, then come back and report.”

And it was a legitimate order, something she knew was important. At the same time, it got Kinsley out of their hair, so she and Leon could have an open discussion. Garrett wasn’t common knowledge, and for all she trusted them, Kinsley wasn’t on the list of need to knows.

They splayed their hands, nodded, and slipped out of the room. Phoebe tried not to hear their tired huff as they went, tried not to watch them for wavering step or sweaty skin, tried not to gauge how magic fatigued they were after blinking Leon all the way here. She could deal with that later. Kinsley would tell her if they were in danger of magic exhaustion. When the door had shut behind them, she turned back to Leon and then dropped down into her chair. Expected Leon to do the same - restless, but he’d always opted to sit over stand where possible - and could not stop the low feeling of unease as it settled in her stomach, watching Leon glance at a chair and look away again, shift his weight on his feet, stay there.

“... How are you, Leon? Have you healed alright?” she asked softly, because even if he'd hurt Nevaeh, Phoebe knew Leon would never have done it deliberately, and he'd been  _ so hurt  _ when he'd chosen to stay… He was walking around on his own, didn’t seem to have lost much - if any - mobility in his leg… Looked healthy, aside from the panicked gleam to his eyes and the faint pallor of so many tandem blinks.

Didn’t look up to meet her eyes. “I… I’m alright. I’m s-sorry-” And couldn’t finish whatever he was going to say, choked and hugged himself tighter, kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

Suspicion, however hard she tried to push it away, bloomed in Phoebe’s chest as unwelcome heat. Dropped her gaze a moment, pursed her lips - resigned herself to having to ask and looked back up at Leon. “... Leon. Have you… talked to Garrett at all?” And hopefully it was innocuous enough a question that Leon wouldn’t rouse suspicions of his own should the answer be no.

It was just too convenient. Nevaeh had been on Garrett’s protection squad. Phoebe hated herself for thinking it, but she couldn’t push the thought away.

Leon shrank, tucked his chin against his collar. “... Yes. A… A little. He…” Trailed off, and it disturbed Phoebe that she couldn’t read the expression that Leon struggled with, somewhere between pain and confusion and regret. “... I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he’s safe.” Almost whispered, and the bubble in Phoebe’s chest swelled and burst in half a second; talked, perhaps, but Leon was telling her the truth. He had to be telling her the truth - she wouldn’t entertain the idea that he’d lie.

And he sounded… desperate. Terrified, that he didn’t know if the invasion had already claimed Garrett somehow or not.

Phoebe bit her lip. “Nevaeh was assigned to protect Garrett,” she told him, the magic warm and prickling in her eyes as she swept Dark Vision around them, ensured they were alone. In yellow, Leon’s body glowed softly - utterly lacking the shrouded purple of the Arcane Bonded. His eyes shot up to her, finally, as she let go the magic, and wide disbelief shone in the copper depths. A moment later, anger rose.

“What? What do you mean,  _ assigned?” _

Considering her answer, Phoebe frowned at him. “... Corvo made a promise that he would remain unharmed. And he’s the Primal’s chosen, Leon. He’s a bigger danger to us than we are to him.” And Nevaeh would have been a case in point, if Leon hadn’t apparently been responsible. Phoebe hated that she still couldn’t shake the idea that maybe he’d done it on Garrett’s behalf. “Nevaeh, Jay, and Keenan are keeping an eye on him. And his allies.”

Taken aback, when Leon went ashen. Shook his head weakly. “Stay away. Garrett’s friend doesn’t like us, Phoebe, with good reason. Stay away from him.”

“You’ve met him.” It came out too even, almost cold, but Phoebe couldn’t help it. Her thoughts raced - Leon had met Garrett’s friend, and yet didn’t know where he was or even if he was safe? The thief hadn’t struck Phoebe as someone for casual introductions, especially if said friend was decidedly unfriendly. Why by Void would Leon have met him then? Unless something else was going on. It had been over six months (just barely) since Phoebe had last seen Leon. Anything could have changed over that time.

Leon shrank back more, huddling into himself, refusing to meet Phoebe’s gaze again. “... Briefly. It was an accident. I- I was stupid. I fucked up.” An initial surge of concern flowed up under Phoebe’s skin, and then she reminded herself that he was standing here, perfectly healthy by all she could tell - and confused suspicion took its place. “Look at what we’re  _ doing, _ Phoebe.” Plaintive. “He risked so much to help us, even though we’re his enemies, and now we’re-- The Empire doesn’t change, Phoebe, even if its leader does. The City’s stood against us for so long, we don’t have a damn clue what to do with it now its fallen. We’re just going to invade it and restructure it and slaughter anything that doesn’t conform. Our armies might not kill everyone, Phoebe, but The City will die and we’ll replace it with just another fucking Grist colony.”

Angry, by the end of it, even as he faded into frantically gulped gasps of air, as if even just the little rant had taken the life out of him. And Phoebe was used to his rants - it was almost comforting, to hear one again, to see him put forth such a stark opinion without shame or doubt - but it was about them; about how wrong they were. For all that Phoebe wished The City’s culture wouldn’t be a casualty (though she knew it would), she couldn’t agree with him.

“The City is dying all on its own, Leon. It might become Imperial, but at least it’ll survive.”

The anger drained out of him, and he still didn’t take a seat but he backed up another step and curled into himself, and Phoebe worried suddenly he might collapse. Warmth burned quietly in the back of her right hand, under her rune, as she waited to blink over and catch him. Shaking his head, and she realised that he was on the verge of  _ tears, _ not collapse. “... I… Whatever you think you should do with me, just do it.” Resigned, maybe scared. For a moment, all Phoebe could do was think about the impassioned argument he’d had with Nathaniel once, over nothing more than the right colour of flowers for the seasonal decorations. This… This, when what they might have argued about was infinitely more important. For a moment, all Phoebe could do was miss the person Leon had been, as she was suddenly struck with his absence.

She hadn’t realised, those months ago, when they’d left Leon behind. He’d been so hurt, and not barely on the road to recovery - how could she have known? Almost unable to even speak, for the damage done to his tongue and teeth, for the unwavering agony he’d been in.

But she should have known better, than to think that it hadn’t broken him.

“Leon… What do you think I’m going to do? Just tell me what happened.”

He scuffed his toes slightly, a little shudder running through his shoulders. “... I was… I was by the Clocktower. Nevaeh just… She just came out of nowhere. I can’t-- I can’t feel it when you blink near me, I didn’t-- She just hit me. I mean- she hugged me, but I wasn’t… ready. I…”

“Panicked.” A short hum. “That’s understandable, Leon. She should have known better than to jump you.” And she still didn’t deserve the retaliation, didn’t deserve to lose her place on the front lines, to be permanently injured - but that was a… worst case scenario. A likely one, granted, but it wasn’t impossible that Nevaeh would recover. Even if she didn’t, Leon wasn’t strictly speaking to blame. If he hadn’t been paying attention, if he couldn’t feel them blink in - especially if he’d already been unsettled - then of course he’d lashed out. He would have felt threatened, under attack. Scared.

Phoebe was quite certain that Leon had felt enough fear to last several lifetimes.

Still refusing to look up, and she saw his fingers tighten against his own upper arm. “It’s not-- I kicked her knee out, Phoebe. I- She’ll be lucky to ever… I did that. I’m supposed-- She was-- I’m a traitor.”

It seemed to take the breath out of him, saying it aloud. There was a moment of absolute, ringing, silence, and then he slowly slid down the length of his own body until he was on the floor, legs splayed out either side of him, knees bent uncomfortably. Staring, Phoebe watching him go down, and then made herself blink. “A… What? You’re not a traitor.”

Eyes liquid, Leon just looked at her.

“Seriously, what by Void are you talking about?” Phoebe got up and walked around so she was by his side - hesitated, remembering how he’d read like Everett on arrival. Didn’t touch him. “You didn’t betray us. So what, you decided to stay here. Corvo let you go, Leon. You were honourably discharged. Where you go after that is no one’s business but yours.” A pause. “... It’s not like you’ve been spilling Messenger secrets to any old peon. Right?”

No. Surely, now, her suspicions were unfounded. Obviously besotted Leon might be, but he’d never deliberately turn on his sister. Even at the thief’s behest. He shook his head, weakly, but when Phoebe offered him a hand, he - shaking - reached out and took it.

“Come on. You can have a room here. You’ll be safe. And that doctor that treated you, Braxton’s gone to get him.” Copper eyes went wide. “Nevaeh will be okay.” And if she said it with half again as much confidence as she felt, well… In the loosest sense, she wasn’t lying. Nevaeh  _ would _ recover; as much as her career as an active Messenger was likely over, the injury was far from mortal. “Come on.”

So she led him out through the manor and to a small room in the empty wing. Settled him. Gave him instructions to come find her if he needed anything, and let him be. Shaken though he was, Phoebe knew that he’d likely seek out Nevaeh soon. That… That would have to be a conversation between them, and them alone.

Kinsley was waiting for her when she got back to her office, and their report was brief. Nevaeh was conscious, not quite lucid with pain, but didn’t look to be in any immediate danger. When Braxton returned with Cassare, Phoebe was surprised to find another woman in his wake - she gave her name as Poppy, her voice edged with something that wasn’t quite City but Phoebe couldn’t quite identify, and it was immediately apparent she worked with (for?) Cassare. Considering how well Leon had healed, Phoebe  _ wasn’t _ surprised when Poppy came back half an hour later to tell her that Nevaeh would be fine.

It was still gamble on whether she’d retain proper use of her leg, but that was something that was just going to have to wait. Not even Sokolov could have predicted it this early.

When, barely an hour after that, she heard Aislynn’s voice risen in a piercing shout, Phoebe fought down the searing sting of fear and focused on the relieved hope.  _ “Phoebe! I got Jay!” _

Lucien beat Phoebe down to the main hall, and when she got there, he was embracing Jay, greeting her with a sweet kiss. She all but melted against him - when Phoebe cleared her throat to make her presence known, Lucien swept Jay up into his arms and turned so that she could make her report. Phoebe didn’t begrudge them, nor the gentle kisses Lucien kept pressing to Jay’s hair.

“Jay…” A soft sigh. “First, tell me what happened. Keenan reported you sent them to the rendezvous and never showed.”

She glanced up at Lucien quickly, seemed to draw strength. There was fear, naked, in her eyes when she returned them to Phoebe. “I…” Another glance up, this one anxious. “It… concerns my mission.”  _ Need to know. _ Phoebe nearly slapped herself, and tried not to let the immense gratitude show on her face, that Jay had just sidestepped that blunder on her behalf.

“Yes, of course. Luc, you can carry her to a room, but you can’t stay for her report. I’ll let you know when we’re done.” There was a pained shadow in Lucien’s sky-blue eyes, but he nodded and obeyed. Once Jay was settled on a bed and Lucien dismissed, he caught Phoebe’s elbow, cast a worried glance at his fiancé, bit his lip.

_ This is going badly, _ he signed in the Messenger’s rapid, sharp motions.  _ We are not even a day into this war. We have lost one Messenger, and we do not know what has happened to Jay. _

Phoebe watched his hands move, flitting through her mental dictionary as he went. There was a stretch of ten seconds while she finished translating, and then she sighed. “... I know. There- It’s ridiculous, but there aren’t enough of us. But I can’t call everyone in to reset, Luc. We need to maintain some sort of presence. The best I can do is restructure and hope everyone gets the message.” He wasn’t satisfied with that, she could see in the frown of his lips and the tilt of his brow, but it wasn’t as if she was any happier. There was just… no better option. Not yet. Grand Admiral Haethel needed better control of The City before they could risk withdrawing fully to get a new approach sorted out. “I know. It’s shit, Luc, it’s all shit. But we’re Messengers, remember. We’ll handle it.”

A nod.  _ I will be outside. _ And he heeded the dismissal and left the room. Phoebe knew he was hovering, just beyond the closed door, waiting for permission to return - so she turned back to Jay, leaned against the edge of the bed with her elbows, just barely at the right height, and kept her voice low.

“Jay, are you alright?” A tired nod. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

A slow breath taken, silver eyes unwaveringly liquid and never quite meeting Phoebe’s blues - she twisted red hair around her fingers anxiously. “He’s… Garrett made us.  _ So _ quickly, Phoebe. And he’s got this-- I don’t know,  _ shadow _ magic. He just… vanished. I couldn’t see him with Dark Vision at all. I could barely see him without it. It made my head spin just trying to look at him.” Voice cracked, and Phoebe made a mental note to tell Lucien to get her some water. “Did Keenan and Nevaeh get away?” Something sharp, in her voice - jagged and desperate, terrified that she’d been in command and let them down.

Phoebe could relate. “... Yeah, they got away - but listen, Jay… Nevaeh…” Fear filled Jay’s eyes. “She’s alive, she’ll be okay, but… she found Leon. She scared him, and he fought back. If she ever returns to active duty, it won’t be for a long time.” As gently as she could, but this was war and no matter how elite, how special or secret or magic, they were soldiers too. If Phoebe had time to dither about this, then she wasn’t doing her job right. Even this… But she couldn’t bring herself to be harsher or blunter.

The liquid shimmer to Jay’s eyes spilled over. “... Leon… did that?” Phoebe nodded. “Is he okay, at least?”

Hesitation. Nod. “He’s here. Resting for now. I hope. He’s… Listen, you can go see him after you’ve rested, but just be warned, he’s… not the person you remember. A lot happened to him, Jay. It… broke him.”

And she shouldn’t be saying any of this, she shouldn’t have even told Jay that Leon was here,  _ nobody _ should know - she should have restricted Leon to his room, despite not technically having any authority over him. But Leon was  _ here _ and everything was already falling apart in her hands, so soon, after not even a day. The darkness that would soon fall outside did not promise any relief.

Besides… the Corps. deserved to know the truth. What had happened to their brother. Phoebe wouldn’t hide Leon’s presence when he was right here. That was up to him.

After a moment, Jay shook her head. “Garrett took me captive.” What? Garrett had taken a  _ captive? _ He truly wasn’t the scared, delicate creature Corvo had coerced; suddenly, Phoebe found herself wondering what Garrett truly was. “I was in an apartment somewhere in the Old Quarter. I… I’m not sure I could find it again, but I remember the general area.” Another nod. That would be good enough, with Dark Vision - even if Garrett himself could apparently evade it. “He didn’t-- I don’t think he knew what to do with me. He had a Pandyssian with him.”

Now, Phoebe stared at her. A  _ Pandyssian. _ What in the fuck?

But Jay wasn’t done, and she shrank into herself as she continued. Hollowness, in silver eyes and shaking voice. “Phoebe, he… He’s not alone. There’s another one. Like him. With the Primal.”

Cold. Hearing her voice like it was someone else’s, as Jay’s words washed through her - as the revelation hit the conscious part of her brain. “... What are you talking about?”

“She’s like him, Phoebe. But she… She’s terrifying.”

* * *

It had been long enough that Basso had stopped counting the hours. He still knew, vaguely, how many had passed - it was after dark now, by… several. The panicked screaming had long since died down. In its place, if Basso listened, he could hear the odd accents being spoken in the plaza. A  _ waypoint _ they called it, the thing they were setting up.

Basso wasn’t stupid. He knew a registration zone when he saw one. Sure, it was with the lure of food and amnesty - and they were lures that he knew would work far too well, even if he felt only the allure of one - but the Imperials were rounding the Cityzens up. Once they had an accurate census, it would be easier to manage them. And if Empire controlled waypoints became the only reliable source of food and peace in The City, it would be  _ so easy _ to make the Cityzens not only complicit in their own subjugation, but  _ grateful _ for it.

The worst part was… Basso wasn’t even sure the Empire was necessarily in the wrong.

Even if they were, though, it was too late. They’d arrived, and The City had all but fallen already. No matter what Basso might think of them, what fears he had, there was little point in contemplating it.

It was over. They were part of the Empire now.

So, Basso did as all Cityzens were bidden and stayed in the Burrick cellar, off the streets. Waiting. He wasn't sure when they'd get to Stonemarket - it could take days, depending on how many  _ waypoints  _ there were spread out across The City and how quickly the Cityzens were processed. Drathen was safe from the riots now, but he was still upstairs, in the attic - didn't dare risk going home. It hadn't even been a discussion. The Imperial announcement had gone out, that the Cityzens were to stay inside on pain of- Well. Basso wasn't even sure. The threat hadn't been articulated and he wasn't sure it needed to be. They hadn’t even brought it up aloud, but Drathen had looked over with a shadow of fear that Basso hadn’t seen in many long years, and Basso had simply nodded back.

Hells to pay before Basso would let some Imperial fucks do anything to Drathen.

He wasn’t exactly in bed, but he was curled up in a blanket to ward off the chill, leaning against the wall at the far end of the mattress. Theoretically, he was working on his set of fake records for the Burrick; when the Imperials got around to registering him, he’d need to make the pub look legitimate. The real records he kept - damning they might be, but Basso still needed to keep  _ track _ of everything - were hidden away behind a loose brick that was so well disguised, and Basso used so little, he wasn’t sure even Garrett knew it existed.

Basso did his best to stay away from it, to forget it existed. Normally, there was nothing but pain behind the brick. It had been  _ hers. _

Truth be told, finishing up the fake numbers and books wasn’t that engaging a task. Basso was careful to maintain them at all times regardless, so the invasion meant only he had to get them up to date and ensure there weren’t any mistakes. He’d finished with his most recent books barely three hours into the enforced lockdown. At this point, he was just beyond two years back - and he was starting to slow down, reluctantly, as he approached where he knew the records were a mess.

Drathen had done his best, to maintain them in Basso’s stead while he’d been… out of sorts. All the same, Drathen was not as meticulous as Basso was and only half understood the rules that he abided by when creating them. It was more important than ever, right now, that Basso went through and fixed them up, to try and avoid as much suspicion as possible - but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t bring himself to go over the dates, and the memories that clung to them in bloody, alcohol-soaked ribbons. Wasn’t sure he could bear seeing the figurine expenses.

So he stayed where he was and stared uselessly at the book in his lap and drowned in his own thoughts. Had to do it, needed to ensure the Imperials wouldn’t bust him - but it was proving impossible, no matter how hard he tried, to get through the rest of this book and start on the dreaded one.

It was the caw that alerted him first. Just a soft one, low enough that Basso reacted slow, turned his head towards Gwendolyn a good two seconds before making his eyes follow suit - and the flicker of motion in the shadows caught his gaze, sent a flood of ice water through his veins. Went stiff, even as he sat up sharper, felt a deep, biting regret for putting himself on the far side of a mattress, and  _ snapped _ the book shut, turned it in hand until it was ready to smack a bitch up.

There was a low chuckle, and this time the feeling was closer to numb shock, as it ballooned under his skin and the book slipped from dead fingers. He knew that voice. Hadn’t heard it in-- hadn’t ever expected to again.

_ “Erin?” _

And she emerged from the darkness into the small radius of candlelight emanating from the bookshelf by Basso’s bed. Offered a sheepish little wave. “Heya, Basso.” For a long minute, Basso couldn’t do anything but stare. She looked… good. Different, almost alien, but good. Built a little thicker than she used to be, her muscles filled out more like a fighter than a thief, and clad in a dark woven fabric Basso didn’t recognise, starting just below her knees and clinging all the way up to her collar and down just past her elbows. Short wraps of the same material, but in black instead of soft brown, protected her feet and covered her palms and wrists. Her eyes shone softly crystal white-blue in the dim light, not glowing but the same eerie magical colour as Garrett’s Primal eye; her hair flowed in jagged locks around her face like a silky waterfall, reaching down below her jaw. A dagger hung from her belt - and it was only there to carry things, given her actual clothes appeared to be one piece - and it looked like it had been carved from bone. Almost… a single bone. Which was ridiculous, of course - the dagger was a good six inches long and delicately carved, the light catching on little designs Basso couldn’t decipher right now. What had died for a weapon like that? Was it  _ whalebone _ or something?

Curled across her shoulders was a cat. It was ragged looking, a stray Basso had no doubt - and he was only more confused and speechless for it. Even if it wasn’t enough of a shock to see Erin at all… a cat? She’d never been one for pets, and the bedraggled creature watching him with sharp golden eyes was far from a pet. It must be a  _ City _ stray, which made even less sense.

It was a ridiculous detail to be fixating on, but Basso found himself thinking about it all the same. Maybe it was because it the only thing that really made  _ sense _ for it, even if it was by virtue of not making sense.

How could Erin be here? Why?  _ When? _

He wasn’t sure how he found himself at the edge of the bed but before Basso knew it, he was standing up and feeling something that was almost like a smile break out on his own face. “Shit. Erin.”

While the cat eyed Basso critically, Erin offered a grimace and shrugged her shoulders. The animal slipped off, slunk onto Basso’s bed, and he didn’t even have it in him to protest, too focused on the former thief before him. “How’ve you been?”

A blink; the question was delivered so casually. As if it hadn’t been more than two years since Basso had seen her, as if she’d headed out of town to do a job and just gotten back. But he couldn’t bring himself to be upset by it. Knowing Erin was alive - or at least had been after the Graven disaster - from Garrett was one thing, but it was  _ different _ seeing her with his own eyes. A step closer, shoulders lifting slightly, before he got control of himself. She might not be quite on Garrett’s level, but she’d still never appreciated--

Erin closed the gap and put her arms around him. “You big idiot,” she mumbled, and Basso felt himself all but collapse into the hug, pulled Erin in closer and let out a shaking sigh.

“Trickster’s tears, Erin. You could’ve given an old man some warning. Or, like… let me know you were fuckin’ alive.” Despite all attempts to the contrary, there was no fire to his voice; just a deep, lingering, pained relief. Against his shoulder, she let out a huffed laugh, shook her head slightly, but didn’t otherwise respond. “... Does Garrett know you’re here?”

Blurted, as it struck him, because  _ good gods _ but Basso didn’t want to run afoul of that reunion. Knew with violent intimacy how horribly shitty an idea it was to mess with their fucked up relationship. Erin went stiff in Basso’s arms, even as the cat let out a low meow, and she hissed back wordlessly. Then: “He knows.”

Curt.  _ Oh. _ Whatever had gone down, it hadn’t gone down well. Basso supposed he shouldn’t be surprised - but his heart sank in his chest. If only the distance had done them good. If only… If only. He’d never found the words to explain to them how much the other cared, even if they were apparently both too blind to see it. At this point, he wasn’t sure he ever would - he wasn’t even entirely certain he  _ should. _

“Well, forget about him.” A topic for another time - or maybe never - and Garrett could take care of himself until Basso got the chance to check in with him. He  _ had _ to, because Basso refused to entertain the thought of anything else. Right now… Erin was what mattered. “It’s… fuckin’ good to see ya, Erin.”

He released her as she stepped away and broke the hug, apparently at her limit now, but she kept a friendly proximity and didn’t move out of the light. “Yeah.” With a rueful little half-grin. “I was back in town. Figured I’d say hi. Is that Drathen in the attic, by the way?”

A nod. “Yeah. I’m sure you noticed our  _ guests _ on your way over.”

“The Empire.” Low, something dangerous and angry flashing in her eyes, even as her hands clenched and her shoulders shook with the faintest tension that Basso knew was barely reigned in murderous intent. “Yeah, I might have noticed them. Guess The City’s finally fucked completely.”

Basso hummed. “Might be a good thing you got out when ya did.” And it was almost a little bit sincere, too; he might hate that she’d just… taken off, even after Basso had learned she was even alive, but there was no small part of him that knew she was better off for it.

Darkness and flutters beside them, and Basso tensed and jolted sideways as black and violet streaks shot out and spiralled in the air, condensed in the span of a blink, and-- Suddenly, another person was standing there beside Erin, taller and dark and--  _ Wait what the fuck-- _ And Basso found himself clenching his hands into fists and preparing to deck the woman.

Erin slipped between them and shot an exasperated scowl over her shoulder, even as she held her hands up to placate Basso. “Fa kanvex áé na zisk,” she said, and an odd lilt Basso didn’t recognise lifted her voice as the syllables rolled from her tongue, too close together for him to decipher into individual words. “Jelt Basso epinasa.”

“Fíanme, Lantasaría-kana. Fa lassinkvex na pajét áér shana.” And the stranger slipped her arms around Erin’s waist from behind, bending down to do it given her striking height, and pressed a kiss to Erin’s crown. “Tsaeke fa.”

Yellow eyes met Basso’s, soft and curious and yet still piercing - a moment later they bled black, ink consuming the irises and then spreading out into the sclera like a disease. Picked out in the unnatural blackness, visible even against the woman’s dark skin, were the veins around her eyes. There was a second of silence, while Basso stumbled back sharply and then tried to fight off the urge to run or fight or just freak out -  _ fucking magic, it had to be fucking magic _ \- and then the woman blinked and her eyes returned to (normal?) sunlight yellow.

“Ítsata,” she smiled, clearly directed at Basso. He didn’t know the language or the way the words danced from her lips, but he knew a greeting when he heard one. “Fa’mé Iseya Kaede.” Stayed where she was, hugging Erin from behind as casually and comfortably as if…

Erin rolled her eyes. “Basso, this is Kaede. She’s my… Heartsong.” Shifting her weight, as she said it, not quite meeting Basso’s gaze. It was uncomfortable, almost ashamed - but there was a hard set to her mouth, something steely and sharp and ready to gouge his eyes out if he said the wrong thing. Which… might be easier to navigate if he knew just what the fuck a Heartsong was - although context was a bitch, to be fair. It was obvious they were…  _ together. _ After a moment of continued silence, Erin glanced up for a split second and grimaced. “She’s… It’s sort of like she’s… my wife.”

And  _ that _ was mumbled, a definite note of embarrassment.

It struck Basso in the chest like whiplash, a frantic pain that he did his best to swallow and scrambled to speak up and hide. “Your-- Shit, Erin, you got  _ married?” _ Don’t think about it, focus on this. On Erin. Basso couldn’t afford the memories right now, couldn’t think about the bells and how beautiful she’d been in the dress--

He shook himself. Forced his voice to cooperate. “Kaede. I’m Basso. Good to meet you, I s’pose.” Put on as roguish a grin as he could manage - tried to mean it. He  _ wanted _ to be sincere.

All hells, he was looking at Erin’s fucking wife. Ignoring how utterly wild that was in and of itself - not just that Erin must have opened up and been vulnerable enough with another person to allow it to happen, but it was someone who was so foreign she didn’t even speak Citya, which meant that by necessity, Erin had  _ learned an entirely new language _ to facilitate it - Basso was… happy for her. It might rip his chest open to think about it, and his fingers itched to pull out the absinthe to dull it, but it still offered an odd warmth around the pain.

And she looked… happy. Utterly comfortable in Kaede’s embrace.

“I am happy seeing you,” Kaede offered back, a stilted and strained tone that clashed with the flowing cadence of her own language (was it… Pandyssian? Had Erin gone to  _ fucking Pandyssia?) _ but proved she did know a little Citya after all. The words came slower than was strictly speaking comfortable, but Erin laced her fingers with Kaede’s and squeezed, and Basso gave her the time. Besides, what else was he going to do? Leaving was out of the question. “I hear much, Basso.”

A half-squint, before turning his gaze on Erin. “You been talking shit, Erin? All the way to Pandyssia?” A safe bet, he’d decided, given how alien Kaede looked -  _ yellow eyes, white hair, so fucking tall _ \-  and he was rewarded with Erin’s low laughter; an edge of relief to it, and her shoulders finally relaxed.

“Only good things, Basso. You have my word.” Playful, fully aware that her word meant little to most. Basso grinned back, as the pain in his chest slowly receded and he found himself capable of focusing on the fact Erin might actually -  _ finally _ \- be something close to happy.

Still, he snorted. “Great, so that means I gotta fix my reputation already.” Equally as playful. Gesturing, he offered them the couches. “Take a seat. You’re welcome to stay - those Imperial bastards can’t be making travel easy, even at night.” Basso took one of the couches himself as he spoke - Kaede released Erin, scooped up something-- the cat? Wait, the cat?  _ Okay, ask about that in a minute, what the fuck. _ Quietly, Kaede joined Erin on the other couch, cradling the cat and stroking its scraggly fur. They sat close, Erin’s shoulder touching Kaede’s arm, and for a moment the Pandyssian tilted her head until it touched Erin’s - just a second, an idle display of affection.

“I can’t believe the Empire’s here,” Erin spat, suddenly bitter, even as she settled and let her hand rest on Kaede’s thigh. “The City’s going to be… gone, once they’re done.”

Basso shrugged, anxiously pushing that reality away, even as the books he hadn’t finished working on rose up again and nipped at the back of his mind. “Yeah. Ain’t nothing we can do about it now. Tell me what the hells you’ve been up to. How did you manage to inflict yourself on someone?” Grinned - Erin snatched up a pen from the table and flung it at Basso, but she was grinning back as it struck him in the arm.

“Hah hah, Basso. Honestly, I’m the victim here.”

And Basso might not believe it, but at least the hours stopped dragging while Erin and Kaede spun their tale, and as they passed the shattered feeling permeating his ribcage slowly faded until all that was left was quietly pulsing relief that Erin was okay, a warm curl of gratitude that she’d come to see him, and a sweetly buzzing heat that almost made everything that had happened worth it, just to see her so obviously happy.

For once, it seemed, Erin had gotten not just what she wanted, but what she needed as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Yes the chess piece is made of obsidian. The Queen of Beggars has obsidian chess pieces. Just cause. _Oooooh loooooordie_ the Queen of Beggars.
> 
> Oh, my dear Messengers. You try so hard.
> 
> Frick. You know the problem with accidentally having like three different things you’re writing, one of which takes place in an entirely different canon? I keep forgetting where a dozen little details I wrote actually are or what lore they fit into. So… I dunno, if you catch any discrepancies, _please_ for the love of all things unholy point them out to me so I can fix them.  
>  #NoPlotholes
> 
> Ugh. The Messengers. That whole scene is… choppy. Ugh.  
> Oh well. I have to live with it, and so do you.
> 
>  _*squee*_ Erin! Kaede! Yesssss! Good thiefdad.
> 
> Welp, that’s just what we’re calling The City variant of what eventually became Grist Common now. It’s practically identical except for a few grammar nuances and shit, but it’s called Citya now. We all have to handle that.
> 
> You guys, Erin and Basso make me happy. Basso is Best Dad. He and Daud can fight it out to the death for the title.
> 
>  
> 
> [Translations!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qocss-b-ITERtbTCXVnGmY4Fj-jIrlZw7_UKj4XcbHM/edit#)
> 
>  
> 
> **The word count for this chapter is 11234 and I am so satisfied.**


	8. What Decisions Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, irrevocable, the paths are chosen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahahahahaha placement is kicking my ass guys. Also, I had to spend a whole evening on the dang Messengers, because I’ve got to keep track of their asses. So enjoy that.

He’d finally shut the window, as the sun had begun to set and darkness had closed back in, but he still hadn’t managed to go anywhere. Curled up on his bed, wrapped in the heaviest blanket he had.

Grateful, now, that he’d bothered to strip it off his bed in the Clocktower and bring it with him. It had been a near thing. The blanket was so heavy and big enough that transporting it to the safehouse had taken a whole trip on its own - but now, with the weight on his back and shoulders, Garrett was relieved to have it. Not only was it warm, but… It settled the jackrabbit in his chest, helped keep his pulse at a comfortable pace, got him breathing evenly. Being wrapped up in it like this brought back Master Amber’s voice, as it always did.

_ “It’s okay.” “You’re doing amazing.” “I’m so proud of you.” “Breathe, Garrett.” “Well done.” _

It was a lie. Of course it was. Nothing was okay, and he’d  _ fucked up _ so, so badly. But the memories were woven into the blanket, words heard a thousand times in a voice that soothed Garrett even though it was gone. Breathing in and out, the same order of numbers, a count so familiar that he did it without thinking. Five, four, five, three. Over and over, eyes closed, pulling the blanket tight and trying to convince himself to believe the voice that clung to it. Five, four, five, three.

Was it his fault?  _ Stupid question, _ Garrett scolded himself, burying his face in the blanket and pulling it over his head. Of course it was his fault. Just because he didn’t know what he did wrong-- He’d never known what he’d done wrong, not until far too late after, and it had never made a difference before.  _ Of course _ it was his fault.

And why shouldn’t Erin blame him? He didn’t know what he’d done, but it was grievous enough that she’d-- She’d attacked him. Only Kaede’s swift intervention - the pulse of Void that even Garrett had been able to feel, shivering and cold - had stopped them from tearing each other apart.  _ No, that's arrogant. _ More likely, Erin would have ripped Garrett to shreds. She’d always been a better fighter than him, and she’d handled the magic so easily, incandescent white with shining blue eyes.

Did he deserve it? What had he done? Desperately, Garrett wished he’d asked.  _ I did, I asked. _ How was he supposed to know?  _ Was _ he supposed to know? And she was gone again, just walked right away from him like she always did, and maybe… maybe that was fault, that, too - maybe he just drove her away, like he had the first time, like he had on Dawn’s Light - because he’d tried to save her but she’d thought he’d just wanted the Primal, the power, and then when it mattered - when she’d been falling, and all he had to do was save her - and he’d thrown her the Claw, still tied to his harness and secured around his torso - he’d been trying to save her, and-- and maybe he had, but he’d gone for the Primal in the same moment, gone for the ring on Orion’s dead hand and slotted open the book and felt the magic erupt - he’d been trying to  _ save _ her, to properly restore the energy that had corrupted her to where it had belonged - but… but maybe he’d gotten it wrong.

Should he have… not? Was that what Erin meant? It had seemed so important, at the time, because there was no point in saving Erin’s body if he let the Primal boil her mind or her soul - but… maybe he’d gotten that wrong. Left it alone until he at least knew Erin wouldn’t just drown anyway, worried about the Primal afterwards. It had seemed  _ so important _ \- but the Primal wasn’t just energy that had been unshackled from its source, she wasn’t merely force and magic and destroying Erin from the inside.

The Primal was a god, who had been trapped inside her flesh, and perhaps Garrett should have saved her from the fall before he thought about saving her from the Light.

But… that didn’t make sense. Erin had been angry with him before Dawn’s Light, before that mess. So, he must have done something beforehand. Which… Which meant that it was either the way things had ended - and she'd told him it wasn't - or…

It was cold despite the blanket, curling into himself.  _ I did something to her during that year.  _ It was the only explanation that made sense. The Queen of Beggars had said he'd slept, and he hadn't even questioned it, and he was  _ so stupid.  _ He couldn't have slept for the whole year. Obviously, something had happened before.

And he didn't have the slightest clue what it was, which meant… he didn't have any chance of fixing it. Erin wouldn't tell him.  _ Why should she?  _ He should know, what he did so wrong.

He should know how to fix it.

Pressing his face into the blanket, and it hadn't held the lavender smell for years but if Garrett didn't think too hard, then he could imagine that it did. Wished desperately that she was still here. Master Amber would know what to do. How to salvage whatever might be left of his relationship with Erin. It was still a foreign feeling, the recognition of how much Erin meant to him, even over a year after the fact. Because he hadn't noticed until he'd lost it, same as he hadn't realised how much he'd missed running the Highway  _ with _ someone until he'd thrown her out of the Clocktower - and his life - and by then… it had been too late.

Master Amber would have had the right words, if she was still alive. Would have known why Erin always acted the way she did, would have understood. She'd always understood him, even when he hadn't been able to express himself, or hadn't even understood himself. Even Erin would make sense to her.

But she was gone, and he'd never speak to her again.

_ Dead on a job.  _ Garrett tugged the blanket tighter, the way she'd told him so many times when the world had become too much, and allowed himself to wonder - for the first time in years - what had happened to her. He didn't know anything about the job that had killed her, didn't know where it had been or who the mark was or even…

Anything. He didn't know anything. She hadn't told him, like she never did, simply trusted him to do as she said and… be good enough without her. He struggled, even though it felt like betrayal to try, to think of a time when she'd doubted him. Not when she'd first tricked him into apprenticing with her, not all the many times he'd failed her, not the night she'd died.  _ You'll be fine,  _ she'd written.

_ You'll be fine. _

It felt like a joke. Not by Master Amber - he'd seen her cause many a spectacle from boredom, or perhaps just to exercise the fact she  _ could, _ but she'd never played jokes on him - and gods, Garrett hadn't quite taken the warning seriously, when he'd first read that final letter. It was just like her, to offer it; they weren't perfect and they made mistakes and sometimes those mistakes cost lives, but it had always been… someone else's.  _ “Do whatever you have to.” _ And he'd felt the little curl of fear but he hadn't seriously thought… 

Master Amber had been the best. Even after the end of the season, Garrett had waited, pushed out her deadline by a week - another - the whole next season. Maybe it had taken her out of The City altogether. Unusual, but she was the  _ best _ and it was hardly a surprise if her reputation carried her away from home. She'd have had no reason to tell him. He'd been her apprentice, not a personal companion. She'd told him all he'd needed to know, and nothing more.

It didn't help, even in the slightest, reminding himself of that. A professional relationship, and she'd kept much of her private life from him, as was only right - and only recently had Garrett even admitted to himself that when he missed her, maybe it wasn't just because he needed her advice.

He'd always thought they hadn't been that close. Master and apprentice and she'd cared for him, certainly, but he was her obligation and it was only his fortune that she'd gone about it so kindly.

_ Stupid. _

Gods, he was stupid.

As they always did when he contemplated Master Amber (a habit that was getting worse), Garrett's thoughts turned eventually to Basso. He'd been Master Amber's fence before Garrett’s. He'd known her. Perhaps not very well, probably not much better than Garrett - he rather suspected he'd know even less, not by any comparison of virtue but simply because Garrett had spent ten years with his Master almost every single night, because she had instilled in him every scrap of skill she'd had - but… Basso might know  _ different  _ things. Gods knew that Basso knew more about Garrett than he'd ever intended when he'd followed his Master's last instruction and sought the fence out.

She'd been the best, but now that was him, and still Basso knew him better than anyone else. It didn't always make sense, and Garrett knew that there were dozens of things he'd never realised, knew because even now there were still things he was suddenly remembering differently, suddenly understanding. Maybe… Master Amber had told him not to stand on her name, when proving himself to Basso, but it had been thirteen years ago. Even if he'd known his Master, Garrett trusted that Basso hadn't taken him on because of her.

Whether he'd ever look at Garrett the same way when he found out, if he found out, if Garrett was truly desperate enough to tell him - that was another story. One that Garrett wasn't entirely certain he was willing to read.

He picked up his head, looked out through the window into The City. There were lights, bobbing around - no riots, he knew, not anymore. The City's riots were over. In their place, they had the Empire's soldiers, patrolling the streets even in the dead of night. And, somewhere out there… they had Erin.

_ “I don’t forgive you.” _

Garrett couldn’t even imagine how terrible a thing Master Amber would have had to do for him to forsake her like that. Granted, his relationship with Erin had never been… easy. It had barely been professional. Much as he’d tried, she’d always pushed too far, asked too much, gotten too close. All the established safety brackets, everything Master Amber had done for him - the ways it  _ should _ be done, the ways that  _ worked _ and kept them both  _ safe _ \- Erin had scoffed at them all. And even so… Even so, whatever he had done to her, during the year he couldn’t remember, whatever it was--

It must be  _ monstrous. _

Pulling the blanket tighter again, Garrett pressed his face into the fabric, let himself relax under the old familiar weight, and pretended that he could still smell the lavender. “How do I fix this?” he asked the air-- the faded echoes in the weave, wishing so utterly for an answer that he felt his heart might stop. “What do I do?”

And he was sure that it was nothing but his imagination, again, as always, her voice and her infectious grin lingering in her absence - but he heard it, just faintly, a shadow on the wind, the answer she would have given him.

_ “Everything you can, Garrett. You  _ **_try.”_ **

So, an hour later, dressed in the cloak his own, the leathers theirs, and the lavender stolen, Garrett slipped into the dark with nary a fear of getting caught, and once again - as he always had - followed Master Amber’s word.

* * *

The Messengers didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t blame them. Not only was the revelation unsettling and unwelcome - it was  _ late. _ It was… Fuck, it was six months too late and he was an idiot for keeping it from them in the first place, but he’d expected  _ (hoped) _ that the problem would resolve itself. Then, he’d hoped that the Outsider would draw him into the Void and, failing that, he’d been too loathe to leave Emily’s side to do anything else about it.

But he’d let his Bonded win one too many sparring matches, gone just a little too long without using the magic, and at this point…

Corvo was sure the rumours had already circulated. Likely many times. Only that the Messengers retained their Bonds, their own magic, had stayed their voices for as long as they’d stayed. This… This was a meeting overdue, and Corvo ran a hand through his hair as they stared.

Annabel, as she always did, spoke up first. “It happened in The City, didn’t it?” Bitterly delivered, narrow eyes and bared teeth and clenched hands. Next to her, Neha offered a brief side eye and took half a pace away. “That-  _ fucking madman, _ he did it to you. Whatever that thing was that he made you swallow.” And it was rage, in her voice, but Corvo still felt the cold under his skin, still glanced out towards the others - all fourteen who remained - and saw the confusion and outrage and incomprehension.

Details, Emily always said, were the undoing of any endeavour. The Messengers didn’t have the details - didn’t know what Annabel was talking about. Corvo sighed, ran a hand back through his hair, and lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Now, he supposed, it was in the details.

“... When we assaulted the Watchmanor, The City’s former Thief-Taker General was in possession of certain magical artefacts,” Corvo began, beckoning Annabel and Keldin up in silence as he spoke. They kept their heads down, but they obeyed. “One of them was an orb full of Voidsong. He’d fashioned a ring out of a piece of it.” A ring that Garrett had taken, had  _ saved _ them from, and one that - Corvo was sure - he still had. It would only be wise for Garrett to keep it. His own magic was useless if he ever had to fight someone touched by the Void - repulsed and out of reach. A feeling Corvo wished he didn’t know.

And he was only formulating how to proceed, but Annabel beat him to it; he let her. They were standing with him now, before what remained of the Corps., because their testimony would help. “It did something. With the Void. We couldn’t use magic if we got too close. And it…  _ hurt.” _ A softer voice, addressing her fellows, lacking the bite that had been so omnipresent in the last six months that Corvo found himself blinking, just the once. Where had it gone? She hadn’t stopped being angry and bitter and--

_ Oh. _

No, but Corvo understood. It was only because she was like that with him, that he hadn’t realised. Only him, and not alienating the other Messengers. Angry only with Corvo.

“Like he was carving out my rune. The stuff he was using, the Voidsong rocks. He--”  _ There _ was the anger, an incandescent, useless rage that bubbled in her voice even as she clenched her hands, and reflexively Corvo reached for it, the Bond, tried to tug on it and feel the anger and assess and damage control. It was cleaner and easier for everyone when he got out ahead of emotional outbursts in his Messengers - helped deal with them before they endangered everyone else.

But her Bond was beyond his reach, and the Mark on his hand my have well been naught but ink for all he felt from it. There was just…  _ nothing. _ Corvo had woken up drowning in it more times than he could count. “... Annabel is correct,” he told them. “Harlan forced me to swallow… something. I haven't been able to touch the Void since.”

It felt like drinking whale oil, to admit it out loud. To himself, let alone to a room full of Messengers. He had to do it. He was far from useless without the Mark, but it made everything so much harder, and put Emily at so much more risk. Corvo's whole style of combat had changed, reformed around his magic. Without it, it was like trying to fight with one arm.

Kauwi came closer, honey eyes shining. “Lord Corvo… If you can’t use magic… We need to have a stronger guard for Empress Emily.” Voice low, dropping his gaze, and Corvo grit his teeth as he realised - again, as he had over and over and over - that he had become too reliant on their Bonds. Would have guessed, if pushed, that Kauwi was anxious of angering him with the implication that Corvo wasn’t  _ capable _ of protecting Emily alone; but without being able to tug on his emotions to confirm, Corvo wasn’t certain.

Settled under his skin uncomfortably, a tingling electric doubt that he hated. It made him feel unwound - nothing but bubbling misgivings and an ocean of bitter despair, and Corvo felt like he’d lost an anchor, adrift, without the magic or the connection.

Found himself wondering, and despising himself for it, how far he could really trust his Messengers if he couldn’t keep tabs on their hearts.

But it was a fearful, selfish thought, born of betrayal and pain and the ever-lingering absence in his own. The Messengers were devoted to him, and while he knew they were only human, it was as easy as simple kindness to hold their loyalty. Corvo pushed aside the flicker of anger that it brought up anyway, Kauwi’s implication - because he was right. Magicless, Corvo might still be a fearsome fighter, but he was no match for any would-be assassin with the Void - or indeed, any other source of magic - at their fingertips.

Ran a hand through his hair again. “You’re right. By all accounts, I don’t believe there will be any significant backlash from The City, but we are still engaged in war and Emily must be sufficiently protected. Until The City has been secured, and everything has settled, I’m suspending your other duties. Three of you will be assigned to Emily at all times.” A ripple went through the assembled Messengers, even as Annabel and Keldin slipped back into their ranks, but then Corvo was met with fierce eyes and sharp nods. “Sylvanus,” and silver eyes locked on him, white hair swept up by a red ribbon.  _ She, _ today. “Draw up a roster. Run it by me when you have. Shifts last twelve hours, swap at midnight and noon.”

She nodded, glanced around - cold calculation filled her expression, her gaze touching on each of the Messengers one by one. A tiny flicker of regret, as he realised she was already putting something together in her head, and he was about to ruin it.

Oh well. “First shift starts right now. Put a fourth on it; I’m… going to visit the shrine.” It felt sticky, coming out of his mouth, like clotted blood he should have spat out sooner, but… it was necessary. The Outsider hadn’t seen fit to draw him into the Void in all this time, and whatever Harlan had done to him - it wasn’t resolving itself. Whatever the gritty stone had been, it was still in Corvo’s system, and he needed it  _ gone. _ If the Outsider wouldn’t deign to summon him, then Corvo would just have to seek out contact himself.

Sylvanus blinked back at him, frowned softly, and then nodded her head. “Yes, Lord Corvo. Shiva, Adria, Kauwi, Nathaniel, you’re on first shift. Get.” The four of them took half a moment to be surprised, if the collective widening of eyes was any indication, and then they nodded at her, offered Corvo the hands-over-heart salute, and slipped away to protect their Empress. “I’ll have the roster ready for you when you return, Lord Corvo.”

Curious, her selection. She’d made it so fast, Corvo knew there had to be a factor that tied those four together. Couldn’t think of it right now. “Good. Stay a moment. The rest of you, you’re dismissed. And I don’t have to tell you that you do not speak a word of this, not even to each other.” There was a round of nodding, a sweep of their faces as they turned away and begun to leave, and Corvo wondered what the emotions therein truly were. He read consternation and anger and a hint of bitterness in one or two, but-- But he couldn’t feel them couldn’t reach to make sure. Couldn’t tell which faces might be hiding the seeds of doubt. In him, or in his abilities. Maybe there was none. He wanted to hope for that, so badly - but he knew better, and without being able to feel the truth for himself, he didn’t believe it.

Still… He couldn’t hold them responsible for his own unconfirmed paranoia. They hadn’t done anything wrong.

Sylvanus approached him, tugging the red ribbon out of her hair as she did. It was tucked away in a pocket, and in its place came the purple ribbon, a pretty violet that shone against white hair.  _ They, _ instead. Corvo noted the change, concealed a slight frown; Sylvanus rarely wore the purple. The red and the blue came out in equal measure, but the purple… They only really wore the purple when they were anxious. Being able to avoid the imposition of what  _ he _ or  _ she _ entailed helped them; Corvo had felt it, many times, the freedom of it.

A little flicker of guilt, as he realised they thought he was upset with them. He’d only seen Sylvanus change their bow in the middle of conversation five times in as many years. So, when they got close, Corvo raised a hand placatingly.

“I’m not angry, Sylvanus,” he murmured, and they visibly relaxed; shoulders came down, the lines around silver eyes relaxed. “Merely curious. The four you put on duty for Emily.”

They turned pink. “Oh.” A little shift of their weight, right foot to left, their fingers playing together. A little quirk of the head, like the ribbon was suddenly heavy, but they made no move to change it. “Uhm… they fit together nicely.”

Corvo lifted an eyebrow. “You chose them awfully fast.” Still running through it, their personalities, their weapon proficiencies, their histories, their ma-- He stared at Sylvanus a moment. “... You put four bloodthirsters on Protector duties together.” Bloodthirst was one of the magics Corvo had  _ (usually had) _ that he was neither particularly proud of, nor used if he could help it. One that was not often passed on; out of all his Messengers, only six of them had inherited bloodthirst from the Bond. Four of them were still here - only Michelle and Rylan had gone to The City, and only because they had enough control to never set it off during sparring.

And there was a  _ reason _ that Corvo had kept the others behind. Bloodthirst, so long as they stayed out of brutal, extended, or perilous combat, was not a problem. But it had taken Corvo a long time to get control of the magic; largely passive, but it built on adrenaline and battlerage and bloodlust, and when it went off… He was careful, with new Messengers - and even with old ones, just in case - to watch for signs of it. He still had the scars from the first time he’d realised it could pass through the Arcane Bond, and Adria had nearly ripped Phoebe’s head off. When the ability triggered, even Corvo went berserk. The key wasn’t learning to control the episode, it was learning to resist it in the first place. His whole body flooded with Void, like it had been set free by the blood; didn’t feel fear, barely felt injuries. It was almost as dangerous to whoever went off as to everyone around them.

Sylvanus scuffed their foot. “... Sorry, Lord Corvo. They fit together.”  _ Patterns. _ Void forsake him, Corvo should have known better. He’d picked Sylvanus to put the roster together in the first place because of their affinity for patterns; if anyone could construct a well-formed rotation that balanced their strengths  _ and _ ensured nobody was on too many shifts too close together, it was Sylvanus.

But he should have known better than to put them on the spot. Of course they’d go for the four bloodthirsters; four slots, four Messengers with a magic none of the others had. It must have been the first thing to pop into their head.

Sighing, Corvo pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine.” It was done now. He wouldn’t go and pull at least two of them off when Sylvanus had already made the call, no matter how much he wanted to, when they were likely already with Emily. It would be obvious why he’d done it; they all knew how cautious he was about that particular ability. Not only would it show a profound lack of faith in them, that he didn’t believe they could control themselves, but it would undermine Sylvanus as well.

And they weren’t in charge, Corvo was, but he’d given them the responsibility in front of everybody. Taking it away now, after the fact, when he hadn’t thought to refute the call in the moment, didn’t reflect well on anybody. The Messengers would understand - after all, they  _ knew _ how cautious he was about bloodthirst, and they knew that it was for good reason - and it was about Emily’s safety, about his daughter - but even so, Corvo put the urge to rest. The paranoia wouldn’t leave him, a constant nagging tick in the back of his mind, that he couldn’t feel their Bonds and couldn’t know for sure and therefore couldn’t trust them fully; but it was staggeringly unfair for him to listen to it. They were  _ his _ Messengers - they had proven their loyalty many times.

“Go on, get started. And don’t put them on together again.”

Their hands went flat over their heart. “Yes, Lord Corvo.” And they scampered away, and left Corvo with his thoughts. Another sigh, running his fingers through his hair. It would just have to do. Even in a worst case scenario, they would only be on together until midnight; it was late afternoon already, nearly six. Hopefully, Corvo would only be gone for an hour at most. It was a long estimate for a shrine visit - encountered in the wild, the trances usually lasted less than a minute, and even when Corvo occasionally visited the small shrine that was hidden away in the sub-basement of the Messenger Corps. mansion - close to Dunwall Tower but officially off record - it rarely lasted longer than quarter of an hour.

But this was a big problem. Corvo wasn’t sure how long it might take, or if the Outsider would even be able to fix it - or be  _ willing _ to. He was expecting to have to make a deal of some kind; and that was assuming the Outsider even deigned to speak with him, if the lack of summons was just the normal way the Outsider no longer talked to him unless something really interesting was going on - or if whatever Harlan had fed him meant that, somehow, the Outsider  _ couldn’t _ summon him.

Because  _ surely, _ one of his Marked losing all access to their magic would qualify as interesting to him. After all, Corvo still  _ had _ his magic - the Arcane Bond was still functioning perfectly fine from his disciples’ end - he just… couldn’t touch it.

So he hoped to be done in less than an hour, but it could take all night if he was unlucky. At least, if it did, the four bloodthirsters would only be on for a half-shift before the next set took over. And it seemed a little pointless, to have them on, because Corvo was banking on the fact that he’d come back with magic restored - but even if he did, it wouldn’t hurt to keep the extra security until The City was won and the unrest was settled.

Worst case scenario, he’d be gone all night  _ and _ the Outsider wouldn’t be able to fix it. A possibility that Corvo dreaded, not in the least because if a literal god couldn’t undo what Harlan had done, then… he despaired for ever being able to.

And Corvo might dislike the chain the Mark put around his neck, but he wasn’t free of it and he had lost all the benefit. Loathe as he might be to admit it… Corvo  _ liked _ the magic. Chain or not, he wanted it back.

His fears were not eased when he came to the miniature shrine the Messengers kept. Corvo was aware of the little contests the Messengers held amongst themselves, small rituals and community that he - even as their leader, or perhaps  _ because _ as their leader - was not privy to; the way they sometimes came by the shrine and wondered if the Outsider would ever speak to them like he spoke to Corvo. As far as Corvo was aware, it had never happened; not that he was particularly surprised by that.

The Outsider was a fickle creature.

Too fickle, Corvo feared - but  _ hoped, _ as he paced before the shrine and awaited the purple static and warped reality that  _ did not come. _ Fickle, and hoped, because if the Outsider wasn’t being a capricious bitch about this, then he either didn’t care or didn’t  _ know _ that Corvo wanted to speak with him.

That he might not care was displeasing, and a little unsettling - he didn’t especially enjoy the position, but Corvo was  _ accustomed _ to being the Outsider’s favourite, whatever that might say about him - but it was an infinitely better option than that the Outsider didn’t know. If he couldn’t sense Corvo at the shrine, then… Well, Corvo wasn’t even quite sure what that might mean. The Outsider was not omnipotent or omniscient, this Corvo knew, but the shrines connected to the Void and tugged on him in a way that he  _ always _ responded to. It wasn’t always with a visit, but Corvo had felt the ripple of it on the rare occasion he chose not to show; the Void shivering with his presence, an acknowledgement and reminder at once.

Being ignored… Being ignored filled Corvo with anxiety, pacing,  _ pacing, _ and he cursed every moment in his life he’d wished the Outsider would leave him alone. The reality of that, it was turning out, was far bitterer a taste than he’d ever have anticipated.

Eventually, he gave in. It had been more than five years since he’d performed a runic sacrifice; they did not and would not offer him additional magics, had never given him abilities he didn’t already have, and Corvo heard the Voidsong from runes only as white noise these days. They had very little to offer him anymore. His magics were as strong as they’d get, his control earned through hard work and not rituals of bone and blood. The Void within him was as vast as it was going to get.

But… if nothing else, it would be a beacon to the Outsider, that someone was calling for him.

So Corvo turned to the hidden compartment in the wall and took a single rune. He had almost no use for them anymore, but he and his Messengers still picked them up whenever they found them. Perhaps, one day, either Corvo or a Messenger would get use out of them - and failing that, at least it kept them out of public hands, where they did nothing but drive those who could not use them to insanity.

For a minute, he just studied the thing. Slightly different to all the others, as they always were, but carved from a single piece of whalebone and humming softly with Voidsong, vibrating in Corvo’s hand. The Mark was etched into it, not centrally but to the upper right hand corner. Other markings, little things that reminded Corvo of bonecharms, or of the huge ritual circles that Granny Rags had drawn all over her hidden lair, carved a curved border around most of the rune. Bound in metal, the five spires protruding at even intervals from the edges of the whalebone - fastened together at the back with bulbous screws - twisted in little spirals, and had been sanded smooth and blunt.

There were no cracks in the bone, and the metal was secure against it; no damage or loosening or movement in the rune. It almost seemed a waste, to do the ceremony and gain nothing from it - but that wasn’t true, and hopefully, with a little luck, Corvo would gain everything from it.

So he went to the shrine, laid the rune atop it, and took a deep breath. Picked up the little dagger that adorned the shrine, held his arm above the rune, and hissed softly as he cut. Not across his palm or hand - he’d  _ need _ those later, damn it - but a short nick in his forearm, a couple of inches back from his wrist, perpendicular to the flow of his veins. Far enough that he didn’t risk much if he misjudged the pressure of the blade, but close enough to bleed freely.

The rune hissed and smoked as Corvo’s blood rained upon it, the Voidsong swelling. He held his arm still, let himself continue to bleed upon it (rather than make a mess anywhere else), and in a practiced motion he turned the dagger in hand and stabbed down. With a  _ crack, _ the rune sundered; a uneven split five ways, a perfectly clean-edged fracture that was utterly unnatural, spanning out from the point of impact and curving around where the Outsider’s Mark adorned the bone.

Crackling, Corvo’s vision swarmed violet and then greyscale blue, the Voidsong breaking into the distant lament of the leviathans like the tide breaking on rocks; the whole room shattered and drifted around him, even as the smoke froze and his bleeding slowed to single, lazy drops that clung to his skin.

Looking up, the Outsider was sitting at the very top of the shrine, legs crossed, but his arms were held loosely at his side. There was… a glitter, in his black eyes, and Corvo shivered to remember the last time he’d seen them - the whole Void cracked apart around another realm, the sister god glowing and shuddering and chaotic. Not his business, what she did with her proxies; even if Garrett was one of them, and Corvo had bound himself to Garrett’s safety.

Not his business, what the Primal did. Couldn’t stop her, even if it was.

Studying him, the Outsider tilted his head. He seemed… perturbed. In turn, Corvo felt his skin crawl.  _ “My dear Corvo. It has been a long time since you called for me. To what do I owe the pleasure?” _

No point fucking about with it. The Outsider would only get bored if Corvo played coy, and this was a less reliable conversation than being drawn into the Void directly. Oh, certainly, the Outsider could do that from here - pull Corvo’s soul from his body and leave but the thinnest connection, traverse the eternity in a heartbeat and leave Corvo in a waking sleep, but to begin with, a shrine visit was always less invasive. The Outsider wasn’t in the real world -  _ couldn’t _ be, Corvo was almost certain - but he pressed against it, the weakness in the veil created by the ritual, let Corvo see through the cracks. Even his Bonded couldn’t see the Outsider, should any be witness, if the Outsider did not explicitly wish it.

Corvo held up his left hand. “I can’t use my magic. Your Mark sucks.”

Not, strictly speaking, necessary. Actually,  _ strictly unnecessary. _ But it had been over six months since Corvo had lost the use of the Mark, and the Outsider seemed not to care to the point of  _ ignoring him _ until he performed an actual Void damned runic sacrifice, so in the overall scheme of things, it was  _ deserved. _

Except the Outsider’s face darkened and he dropped from the top the of the shrine, drifting down in a controlled fall until he was hovering just before Corvo.  _ “You what?” _ Soft, with just a… hint of disbelief. A tone that Corvo hadn’t heard in the Outsider’s voice before, something low that sent chills down his spine.

Okay, time to back up. The snippy remarks could be restrained, on second thought. “I can’t use my magic,” he repeated instead. Went to lower his hand - and couldn’t bite back the strangled noise that choked him as the Outsider grabbed it.

Pain shot up his arm, and all at once his ears rang with Voidsong, cacophonous, a shrill screaming buzz inside Corvo’s skull that rattled down his spine and danced in his chest, like a percussionist playing his ribcage. He staggered, and the Outsider’s hands on his were… cold.  _ So cold. _ The substance wasn’t there, in the touch, nothing solid to cling back to, and Corvo felt his fingers flex uselessly - felt the grinding tension, too cold, like he’d plunged his hand into Tyvian ice.

A tug, reflexive, even as he stepped back and bit down on the moan, trying to pull away. There was no weight in the way the Outsider’s hands gripped, silky and smoke-nothing light - but Corvo could not get free, and the whale god didn’t even seem to notice his attempts. After what felt like  _ minutes, _ Corvo managed to blink and squint through the pain enough to study the Outsider’s face. The cold had spread up from the touch, his hand numb and burning at the same time, curling delicate tendrils into Corvo’s chest. So cold that it ate the threatening fear - and surely, if it consumed his heart too then he would die.

The faintest caress, like that of a down feather, and Corvo watched the Outsider press two fingers against the Mark, observed the scowl that was somewhere between consternation and rage - lost sight of both as his Mark turned blinding white and hot agony erupted from it.

Did he scream? He hoped not, but the conflicting cold clashed with the flames as they consumed him from the inside out, his skin igniting last, and it was like being back in Coldridge, like watching them flay him, like the smell of it as he  _ cooked-- _

He wasn’t sure how long it took for his senses to come back online, but when they did Corvo found himself on his knees, Marked hand cradled tight against his chest, gasping and panting for air. Suddenly, he was immensely glad that they weren’t in the Void; he gulped each breath, clung to the rise and fall of them, the expansion in his chest that offered sweet, savoured relief from the raging heartbeat and slowly unwinding panic.

The Outsider, when Corvo finally looked up - and too soon besides, shaking where he knelt - was standing still too close, but far enough away Corvo couldn’t reach out and touch him. Glittering inky black in his eyes, lips pulled down and nose slightly wrinkled.  _ Anger, _ in his face. Corvo looked down again, tried not to think about the little spots of liquid black rolling down the Outsider’s cheeks like tears - he couldn’t be…  _ crying. _ That was-- That was fucking absurd.

_ “I apologise, Corvo.” _

There was still the Void ichor seeping from his eyes, when Corvo looked up, but it was in the air around him as well, floating orbs that winked and shimmered with reflections of the Void. Corvo’s own eyes were wide, staring in disbelief - the Outsider’s voice  _ thundered, _ quaking with rage, and it was hard to decide what struck him more. That, a most blatant  _ human _ emotion on open display - or that in it, the Outsider had  _ apologised. _

“... What?”

Drifting closer, and then seeming to think better of it, teleporting behind Corvo in a flurry of black ash; the deity took up pacing, a similar pattern to Corvo’s. The shards of Void nothing followed him like a loyal tornado, even as every other step became teleportation, and Corvo had to stop watching. It wasn’t like him to get motion sick, but the Outsider’s movements were so erratic and contained such casual power that Corvo had to look away.

There was a faint effervescent glow, to the Outsider’s pale skin. White on black, even more stark than usual; on a brief glimpse, as he spoke again, Corvo caught the same dark liquid that was bleeding from his eyes staining the corners of his mouth.  _ “You should have summoned me sooner, Corvo. It has been millennia since the Realmstones have seen human hands. I did not suspect--” _ And he stopped dead, paused in his pacing. His humane appearance was breaking down, cascading around him in favour of swirling liquid darkness and the faintly shimmering light of whale oil. He still looked like the Outsider Corvo knew, but underneath that skin - Corvo could see it like a photographic underlay, something both there and  _ not, _ a boiling creature that was smoke and magic and oil.

Looked away, and already couldn’t quite put word or thought to whatever the Outsider truly was underneath the facade he walked their dreams wearing. It was the same, Corvo remembered, as trying to look at the Primal when she’d not worn her glowing human form.

And of course it was. It shouldn’t be a surprise, to learn this. The Outsider was a god, just the same as she was.

Corvo had been fooled, by the lilting voice and human face and only the eyes to show how utterly Other he was. Perhaps that was the point. Still, it made Corvo’s stomach churn and his mind scattered from it, so he kept his head down and focused on the floor, and wondered what the fuck a Realmstone was.

_ “I cannot see the Realmstones, or the tomes that they protect, as I can see what else may befall you, Corvo. Would that I could have warned you.” _ Still angry,  **growled,** and Corvo decided that maybe, it would be best to let the Outsider continue without interruption. The pain was fading from his hand, where the god had touched him - fading and leaving dim tingles in its wake, even as Corvo got his breath back and knew he could stand up without stumbling.

He didn’t.

The Outsider paced by. Corvo felt it, shivers of Voidsong and cold ripples - close enough to send shudders through him, but he didn’t make contact again and Corvo counted his blessings.  _ “Who did this to you, my Corvo?” _

It was… not his typical endearment. Didn’t sound with the little note of playfulness, always so distant but just barely there, something that Corvo might have mistaken for affection from a human, but that at least had never felt malicious.  _ This _ time, it was possessive.

Still, Corvo knew better than to deny him. Not right now. Not writhing power and unchecked temper - not losing control of his human face. “Thadeus Harlan. He made me swallow it. In The City, right after… I met your sister.”

Felt risky, to bring that up, and Corvo flinched as the Outsider  _ snarled. _ The sound tore open the world around them, the Void quivering in response. Corvo felt it within him, touching the Void he hadn’t been able to find in so long - just faintly, a distant flicker like catching a butterfly. Gone again, a moment later, and Corvo wasn’t even certain whether he should feel relieved or not.  _ “Why did you not summon me sooner?” _

Corvo flinched. If the Outsider decided, in the end, to turn his wrath on Corvo, then Corvo was  _ utterly fucked. _ “I assumed you would call me to the Void.” Just be honest. Honest, concise,  _ quick. _ It was all he could do - Corvo didn’t even entertain the thought of hesitating, let alone lying.

A low growl, and Corvo felt the whole world shudder around them again.  _ “I cannot find you, Corvo. You have fragments of Voidstone within you. They cloud my vision. I cannot call you, I cannot see your presence at my shrines, and I could not feel your corruption.” _ But the Outsider stopped, flexed hands that caught in the edge of Corvo’s vision like his sight was a physical thing that the shadowy claws could cut.  _ “That is no excuse. I thought it odd that I have not felt you call on the Void.” _

Cold, again, but at least it was a normal cold feeling. It didn’t make Corvo feel any better. Not that he didn’t care, then; the Outsider hadn’t  _ known. _ As before, and proving him right, Corvo wished that it had been that the god simply didn’t care.

Whatever could fuck up the Outsider’s powers was something Corvo wanted no part of.

_ “I cannot fix this, Corvo.” _

Anger gone, all of a sudden, melted into something distinctly more… pained. Corvo had looked up before he could even consider the decision. His thoughts twisted, eyes narrowed even as he glanced away reflexively - the bubbling shadow-smoke under the Outsider’s skin, bleeding out from his eyes and nose and mouth and ears, the savage black talons that broke from his hands without any physical presence, the faint ribbons of whale oil light. Too unnatural, too far for Corvo’s mortal mind to piece together into something that resembled reality. Two things couldn’t exist in the same space, and the disparity between the humane appearance the Outsider projected and whatever divine demon he hid underneath it was so shatteringly vast that Corvo couldn’t convince himself to think them the same entity.

When he looked back, a moment later, the Outsider had resolved. Liquid shadows still dribbled from every orifice, and there was still a faint tinge of luminance from his skin - but he looked almost human again. Corvo would take whatever he could get.

The words sunk in a moment later, and Corvo felt himself slump where he knelt, let his Marked hand drop from his chest to the floor limply. “You’re the  _ god _ of the Void.” Flat, and yet indignant, and Corvo knew he needed to shut up but he couldn’t help it. If the Outsider couldn't fix what the Void had fucked up, then there was no hope.

_ “I am  _ **_not_ ** _ the Void's master.”  _ Sharply, an edge of the anger returning. Corvo frowned, at that - not a denial, but a  _ distinction.  _ What, truly, was the difference the Outsider was implying? How he could he be the god of something without also being it's master?  _ ”I cannot touch the Voidstone, but you can be cleansed of it.” _

Corvo looked up - met a liquid black gaze, too close, far too close - didn't dare lean back but felt tension fill his every muscle - and reminded himself, as steadily as he could, that the Outsider wasn't angry with  _ him.  _ It would have been only too obvious if he was.

_ “Seek out an Attuned. There are two that currently walk your world. I cannot touch Voidstone, but my sister can.” _

And all at once, the Outsider turned to flaking black dust, the Voidsong around him dimmed to nothing, and colours snapped back into reality. On the shrine, as Corvo began to bleed freely again, the rune hissed and dissolved into soot and smoke.

Corvo was on his knees, right hand locked around his left. Sitting not too far away was--  _ Fuck, he wasn't meant to be seen-- _ No- wait- short black hair, navy eyes that were going wide as they registered he was out of the trance -  _ Naomi.  _ Relief, felt like broken bones.

“Lord Corvo?” she entreated, voice careful, not coming any closer, even by leaning. “Are you alright?”

His voice caught on the first attempt, a cracked nothing noise that frayed until he swallowed it. Cleared his throat, shook himself, pried his hands apart. “What are you doing here?” Grateful, that it was Naomi, that it was just a Messenger, but still - they weren’t supposed to be down here. Even just one.

There was something liquid in her eyes. “We heard you scream,” she said softly, looking away, shoulders hunched. Afraid? Perhaps just freaked out. “Your Mark was white, we were… worried. You seemed alright, once you went quiet, so we didn’t want everyone to stay. We just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Corvo sighed, shifted his weight so he was sitting instead of kneeling. Everything ached, a lingering hot-cold throb in every muscle, a painful tingling in his left arm. The Mark was normal black, when he chanced a look. “... The concern is appreciated, but I’m fine.”

Squinting, Naomi met his gaze. “Are you?” Like she didn’t believe it, and she licked her lips a moment later. “Never mind. Did the Outsider… fix it?”

This time, Corvo looked away. The answer was implicit in the action, and he heard Naomi’s breath catch, heard her lean away and let the air hiss out between her teeth. Still had to give voice to it. “No. He can’t. But he told me how.”  _ Seek out an Attuned. _ Void. He didn’t want to go back to The City - not ever, but  _ especially _ not right now. Hated to leave Emily at the best of times, even when she ordered it herself.

But he’d have to tell her. And she would order him to go; trust the Messengers, she’d say. They belonged to him for a reason. They could keep her safe.  _ And Emily isn’t helpless. _ No comfort, in the thought that Emily knew how to protect herself. Jess had known how to fight as well, but against magic, it had meant nothing. But Emily would have advantages Jess hadn’t. Experience with magic; protectors with magic of their own.

“How?” Eager, a note of excitement that precluded the disappointment that the Outsider couldn’t fix it. Corvo kept looking away - couldn’t tell her. The Primal wasn’t open knowledge, even amongst the Corps. and he wouldn’t reveal Garrett. Not even to them.

Voice low. “That’s need to know, Naomi.” And she scowled, but she didn’t protest.

Got to her feet, paused, and then came close to offer Corvo a hand. “Yes, Lord Corvo. Whatever it is, you should do it soon.” Corvo took her hand, although he was careful not to put his weight on her as he stood up. Grasped perhaps a moment too long, but they pulled away and Naomi ran her hand through her hair. “... Are you sure you’re okay?” Was she really that shaken?  _ Void, _ whatever the Outsider’s touch had done to him in the real world, it must have been bad.

He met her gaze. “I’m fine, Naomi. I need to speak with Emily. To get my magic back, I… need to leave.” Flat. He didn’t want to leave - by Void, he hated the idea of leaving. “It can wait until things have settled.” It had to. He couldn’t walk away from Emily - except it was a lie and a longshot in one, and Corvo knew it. His daughter would insist. She always did.

Biting her lip, but Naomi didn’t protest. “As you say, Lord Corvo.” Didn’t seem willing to push her luck. A flicker of guilt burrowed into Corvo’s chest, at that - was this his fault? Had he been so distant and cold trying to hide the fact his Mark was useless to him that they truly feared even just speaking their minds to him? His jaw clenched; he’d have to do better. The Messengers didn’t  _ work _ if they couldn’t be open with him. “I’ll go and inform the others that you’re okay.”

“You can tell them everything,” Corvo gave permission, and was relieved to see her perk up at it. “Emily will likely insist. If I am sent on this mission, it will be up to the Corps. to keep her safe.”

Giving in to the idea, even as every fibre of him wanted to scream resistance. He would obey his Empress until the end, when she gave him an order. Anything, as was his duty, as was he bound. Even that which he hated - even to leave her side.

Naomi straightened up, pressed her open palms to her chest. “Yes, Lord Corvo. We won’t let you down.” Scampered off, paused at the door, turned back. Something dark, dancing in her face in the dim light. Bit her lip again. “... Corvo?” He grunted, acknowledgement and nothing more. “We won’t let anything happen to Empress Emily. We love her too.”

Stopped dead, and Corvo looked up at her and wasn’t sure if he wanted to thank her or warn her. But she shook herself, glanced over him once more, and gestured.

“You should bind that cut. You’re bleeding everywhere.”

And she took off, and left Corvo alone with his thoughts.  _ Seek out an Attuned. _ Loathe to do it, to leave Dunwall, to go anywhere near The City - and above all, he didn’t want to hunt down Garrett. Corvo had made him a promise, to ensure his safety and wellbeing, to make sure the invasion didn’t take him. But there were other promises implicit in the first, an agreement that he stay away - the huge complicated disaster that was their interactions, and it was easier for both of them if they simply never saw each other again.

Difficult, if Garrett ever took him up on the offer of training that Corvo had never retracted, but that would be  _ his _ decision to make. For Corvo to chase him, after everything… Teeth gritted, but Corvo was already resigning himself to the reality.

_ “I cannot fix this,” _ the Outsider had said. Perhaps that, even more so than frightening the thief, should be Corvo’s concern. What in the world was a Realmstone? And he’d seen the Outsider’s wrath, seen anger and emotion and power such as he’d  _ never _ imagined - Corvo hadn’t even thought the Outsider capable. It was somehow even more unsettling, knowing that the enigmatic humanity was a  _ choice _ the god had made, rather than his natural state of being.

Corvo rubbed his face with both hands, and tried to ignore the way his left still prickled dully, like fading numbness. Something that the Outsider could do nothing about, so powerful and dangerous as to block divine sight.  _ Couldn’t _ call on Corvo, the Outsider had said.  _ Couldn’t _ sense his presence at the shrine.

Powerful, and scary, and infinitely more dangerous than a human enemy, even one with magic of their own. And still, Corvo’s chest constricted at the thought of leaving Emily, at the thought of trying to get Garrett to cooperate with him again. The Cityzen was wounded enough. He didn’t need Corvo scaring the shit out of him again, didn’t need to be threatened.

Corvo would just have to find another way. Always, always, another way - if he could take back an Empire with minimal bloodshed, he could make a deal with Garrett that didn’t involve coercion.

Another sigh, rubbing his face again, and then Corvo made his way out of the shrine room, out of the Messenger mansion altogether. Into the Tower, in the moonlit winter night - all the way up to Emily’s chambers. Garrett was a problem for another day. First, Corvo had to speak with his daughter.

And afterwards, his Empress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ammmmmbeeeeeeer._
> 
> **Oh my fucking gods** I literally just realised (going through my notes) that Kaede called Erin _Ashíaril_ and that means STARLIGHT I swear to god I wasn’t even thinking WHOOPS
> 
> CooooorvooooooooOoOOOOOOOOO.
> 
> There is… Corvo. In this chapter. Yes. Corvo. _Corvooooo._
> 
> In other news, the Outsider is angry. And also _literally a god._ I know he acts like a fanboy troll but remember kids, **the Outsider is a literal god.**  
>  Please remember not to fuck with his toys.


End file.
